Pills, Shots and a Broken Piano
by Boticelli Puzzle
Summary: “Impulses, House realized, were stupid.” All seems as normal as possible at Princeton-Plainsboro, until Wilson makes noises whilst eating a particularly tasty omelet...House&Wilson SLASH. Where have all my old reviewers gone?:D
1. Gunning the Chainsaw

A/N: What I'm doing now is I'm glomping chapters together. When I get time, I'm going to supply more material for chapters one and two, then make them their own selves again :)

GHXJW

"House, this is dangerous," Cuddy said, eyes flashing.

"But Mommy, I want to play with the chainsaw," House whined ironically. Cuddy stared at him.

"You're totally unbelievable!" she exclaimed finally. "You can't just fire everyone!"

"But Mommy," House continued. "They're annoying. All of them."

"Well, it's your fault. You started the elimination system," Cuddy fired back.

"Well, they all sucked."

Cuddy drew in a deep breath, then let it out. "House," she said very carefully. "If you fire everyone, I will personally hire your next team. And I don't care if you like them or not."

"As long as it doesn't include Foreman I'm happy," House replied darkly, and limped off. Cuddy gaped after him. Had he just agreed to one of her proposals?

"You're all fired," she heard him yell from the lecture hall. She took another deep breath and reminded herself yet again that House was incorrigible. The lecture hall door banged open again and House limped back out, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Where's my new team?" he asked smugly.

Cuddy looked into those blue eyes. They were hard, calculating, a little mischievous. "You'll have a new team within the next week or so," she relented, and stalked off. She could feel House's eyes following her down the hall. The Fellows walked past them, shooting evil looks in House's directions. He smiled and waved, mocking their inferiority to the end. Cutthroat Bitch looked particularly murderous; Thirteen looked bemused, Taub looked heartbroken and Kutner looked as though he might cry.

"What did I ever do wrong?" Cutthroat demanded, swerving to face House.

"Your skirts," House replied blithely. "Were never short enough."

She gawped at him for a moment, then regained her composure and resumed storming down the hallway.

Wilson sidled up beside House. "Smooth move," he commented.

House looked at him cryptically. "I'm known for it," he quipped, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

"Listen, House, do you mind if I – "

"Crash with me a few nights?" House completed the by-now familiar phrase. "No." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "But you have to cook."

"Of course, House." Wilson couldn't help a smile. "It's a given." House nodded at him once, a slight smile on his face.

"I'll see you in about an hour, then?" Wilson asked, following House to his office.

"Make it two," House replied. "I don't have a team."

GHXJW

"House, it's classic Wilson's," Wilson said, taking a moment to think about the weirdness of him suggesting Wilson's. Wilson suggesting Wilson's. He stared at his reflection on House's glass wall. He was fully ready to go, still wearing his jacket and carrying his briefcase, but of course, House, still in merely a t-shirt and his backpack half-packed on the floor, was not ready to go home. He didn't appear to even have the mild want to start getting ready to leave.

"Why didn't it rear its ugly head earlier? And it doesn't explain the rashes." House dismissed Wilson's theory easily. "It's heavy metals, radiation or just an allergy…"

Wilson yawned. "House, can you do the blood cultures tomorrow? Or, rather, later today?" he added acridly. "It's two in the morning."

House glanced at him, measuring, calculating as always. "Is poor little Wilson tired?" he challenged.

"Yes," he nearly yelled. "I just said, it's two in the morning, most normal people are sleeping!"

"Ah," contradicted House. "But that's not what you said. You said it was two in the morning, you didn't say anything about norma - "

"It was implied," Wilson said loudly.

"Because I'm normal," House said sarcastically. "I'm so normal it's unbelievable. I even have a cell phone."

"Shut up, House. Can we go now?"

House shot him another wordless glance, analyzing. He rolled his eyes, and limped toward the door with surprising speed. "You coming or not?" he asked irritably. Wilson pressed his lips together and got up. "I'm sorry," House said as they walked down the hallway. Wilson looked up at him, extremely surprised. House, apologizing? Somehow the only symbol that came to mind between the two words was 'does not equal'…

"I forgot, you need your beauty sleep," House continued bitingly. "It's important to look as pretty as possible while telling people they're going to be dead in six months."

"Shut up, House," Wilson repeated.

House, being House, didn't shut up. "And of course, you have to do your little beauty regime at seven-thirty in the morning, while other normal people are trying to get some sleep – "

"House, unlike you, I go to sleep before two, usually. I sleep the same hours you do, only more sensibly. And, unlike you, I actually look in the mirror before I leave the house," Wilson retorted. It was a stale, overworked argument, but Wilson clung to it because it was what he knew. He added another old argument in, just to round it off. "And I'm not constantly hyped up on Vicodin."

House grunted noncommittally. "Are you going to add anything about morphine shots? Because I think that's item number four on the list."

Wilson sighed. "House, I'm sorry. It's just…oh, you know, already. Don't you?"

House hmmphed. "If I didn't know, I would've asked you. But I haven't asked you. Which must mean?" Wilson searched his coat pockets whilst attempting to follow House's logic.

"I forgot my car keys," he said aloud.

House turned on him. "Wrong! It means I do know. Surprise!" He put on his mock-shock face.

Wilson sighed. "I guess I'll have to go back and get them."

"Or," House said with an evil glint in his eye. "You could ride the bike."

Wilson stared at him. "With you?"

"Don't worry, the helmet makes a great disguise," House assured him, wide-eyed. "No one will see you with the devil incarnate."

"Not the point," Wilson replied, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "Are you sure? You're tired, and it could be very dangerous."

"I'm always dangerous, Jimmy," House leered. "Besides, the worst that could happen is that you'd actually become a saint."

"Okay," Wilson said, not believing that he was agreeing. House glanced at him, face unreadable. "Okay. I'll ride your bike."

House grinned in his slightly maniacal manner. "Okay. You can ride my bike," he drawled, dragging out every insinuation that statement could ever possess. "But don't start anything you can't finish."

Wilson rolled his eyes and blushed, looking at House as though to say, 'You really are fifteen, you know that?'

House sat on the bike, stowed his cane, gunned the engine. He paused before putting on his helmet. "You know, it helps when you actually sit on the bike." Suddenly feeling a little timid, Wilson sat tentatively behind House. He put the briefcase on his lap awkwardly. He didn't quite want to sit too close to House, because he actually respected people's personal space. On the other hand, he didn't exactly want to fly off the bike as soon as it -

Totally unexpectedly, the bike shot forward, and Wilson felt himself nearly die as the parking lot rushed by him in a blur of fluorescent light. Just as abruptly, the bike jerked to a stop. House turned to him with an exasperated look on his face. "Sorry, I forgot to disseminate the dangers of riding the bike," he snarked. Wilson, head still spinning, didn't respond. "Hold on." Wilson nodded dumbly, and clasped his arms loosely around House's waist. House looked back at him again, fixing him with a bright blue eye. "Although tiredness does sometimes interrupt with basic cognitive functions, usually people can usually still understand what I perceive to be coherent English," he snapped. "Hold." Wilson tightened his grip around House's waist. "Almost. And, here. You wear the helmet."

GHXJW

House wasn't watching Wilson. At least, he wasn't intending to watch Wilson. But the ease with which he moved around the kitchen, his efficiency, the way he knew where everything was…it was strangely attractive. Comforting. It said enough about how messed up he was that Comforting automatically equated Attractive. "Wilson, I'm divorcing you," House called from the couch.

"And why is that?" Wilson asked, not missing a beat.

"It's taking you over half an hour to make breakfast." Wilson frowned.

"Just commenting," he said lightly, turning back to the stove, "It would go a lot faster if you helped me."

"But that would involve me getting up from the couch," House whinged. "And you know…"

Neither mentioned how they had been woken up at three in the morning: House with a searing pain in his leg, and Wilson by House getting up because of his leg. "Done!" Wilson exclaimed triumphantly, breaking the silence.

"Finally," House muttered, picking up National Geographic from the coffee table. "What is it?"

"Brunch," Wilson said, carefully carrying a plate of something steaming hot that smelled delicious.

Of course, House wasn't going to say so. "Stewed vomit?" he inquired helpfully.

"Omelet," Wilson corrected, a muscle in his jaw tightening. He really should get used to House's jibes about his cooking.

"Same thing." House took a bite, regardless. He closed his eyes, let the bell peppers crunch against his teeth as the cheese melted on his tongue and the mushrooms added their extra little kick and the egg went along with every little burst of flavor. "This is why I keep you. Pepper?" House wiped his mouth. Wilson rolled his eyes, but got up anyway.

"Here you go, master," Wilson passed him the peppershaker, sighed and flopped onto the couch with his own plate of omelet. "Mm. It is good." And he proceeded to make little contented noises that for some reason made House want to lean over and –

"What time is it?" he asked, unnecessarily loudly.

"Eleven," Wilson answered brightly, and kept eating. House watched as he attempted to retrieve a square of bell pepper that was stuck on his lip, then looked at his own plate. This was strange. This was very strange.

"I'm going for a walk," House announced. "And you're…not coming!" Making a face, he stood up, and immediately regretted it. That burning pain shot up his thigh again, and he wavered, almost collapsing back on the couch.

"A walk?" Wilson repeated blankly.

"Sorry, I mean, I'm going for a limp," House yelled over his shoulder as he started toward his bedroom to change clothes.

"I think it's better you stay home," Wilson said, catching up to his irregular gait easily.

"Really? How sweet of you to offer your opinion. Now watch as I totally disregard it." House tried to push by him, to get into the room, where he could collapse onto the bed and scream into his pillow. Or something to that effect.

"House. You can barely walk."

"Wilson, you're gay."

"What?"

"Exactly. Why are we discussing the obvious, again?" House snapped. "Now why don't you be a good little boy and move."

"It's not obvious that I'm gay," Wilson protested weakly, but let him through.

House fixed him with a stare. "It's not obvious. In fact, it's so imperceptible, you haven't even realized. Don't worry, the door's locked from the inside." Should he wear the red shirt or the white one?

"Inside the what?" Wilson asked perplexedly.

"The closet." The 'duh!' was almost audible.

"House, I'm not in the closet," Wilson objected.

"Ha." Or maybe the green one was better.

Wilson put his hands on his hips. "I'm not gay."

"It's still locked, Jimmy."

"I'm as gay as you are!" Wilson nearly yelled, sure that House would then affirm his own Straightness, thus making Wilson, by a twist of logic, also Straight.

"Because I've been married three times," House shot back, deciding on the light blue shirt. Pulling off his plain white one, he debated which pants would look best with the shirt. Maybe he didn't want to change pants; the leg hurt terribly even without him jostling it.

"All because I've been married and divorced three times doesn't mean I'm gay," Wilson retorted.

"You're right." House contemplated the jeans on the far left. "It doesn't make you gay." Wilson peered at him, sure there was more. He was right. "It makes you closeted."

Wilson groaned. "No, it doesn't. It just means that I'm not compatible with marriage! It just doesn't work with me, I guess."

"Well, then, you're lucky you're gay. Unless you move to Canada." Another painful twinge made House decide to not change his pants.

"Why am I discussing my sexuality with you, anyway?"

House shrugged. "You brought it up."

"Did I?" Wilson squinted and tried to remember how he had gotten into this in the first place. "No, wait, you – "

"Classic signs, Wilson!" House bellowed, extracting himself from the white shirt. Wilson stared at him. "You've been married three times and had a lot more sex than that -- overcompensation. You throw yourself into this cycle over and over again – denial. You're an excellent cook – self-explanatory. Where's my Vicodin?"

"Thank you," Wilson said quietly, passing a still-shirtless House the orange bottle.

House swallowed two dry. "For what? Making your life a hell of a lot easier?"

"No. For telling me I'm an excellent cook." House winced as the pills went down, leaving the bitter aftertaste as always. "I'm not having this conversation anymore." No response. "House?"

House sat down on the bed, breathing ragged, eyes wide. The Vicodin was doing its job, but it wasn't hitting the pain fast or hard enough. "Bookshelf," he gasped. Wilson nodded once, and rushed to the bookshelf. Spotting the ladder he virtually leaped up it, scrabbling around the top. He encountered a cold, metal box. Hoping, praying this was the one, he scampered back down and gave the box to House. "Morphine?" he asked, frantic tone betraying his cool exterior. House gritted his teeth and shook his head, snatching the box and preparing himself for an injection. His hands were shaking so much he couldn't do it properly, the syringe slipping from his fingers.

"I'll do it," Wilson suggested. He carefully took the syringe in his fingers, hoping to God it wasn't going to kill House, and plunged it into House's arm. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal, and Wilson carefully slid out the syringe and undid the tie around House's upper arm. House dropped backwards onto the bed, and Wilson leaned over him, checking his pulse and breathing. He reached automatically to his breast pocket for a penlight to check if he was responsive to light, but found only the material of his cotton t-shirt. "House. House."

House cracked an eye open. "What?"

"What did I inject into you?" Wilson spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a person who didn't speak fluent English.

His eyes closed again. "Sodium thiopental," House replied.

"I injected an anesthetic?" Wilson considered being totally outraged that House even owned such a substance. "Okay. Okay. Does your leg still hurt?"

"Not really," House breathed.

"How do you feel?" Wilson asked awkwardly. He never asked House this. He asked patients this. House wasn't his patient, House was…House was…

"About?"

Sodium thiopental was a truth drug, Wilson remembered. Sometimes. And it was used by the bad guys. "House," he began. Don't do it, Wilson, he begged himself. It's disgustingly manipulative. It's juvenile. It's…

It's what he would do, were the positions reversed. He took a deep breath. "House, why did you suggest that I was gay?"


	2. Headaches

A/N: Sorry, a lot of it is sloppy and not very clear. My phrasing could be better. But I have to write this before it goes away…This chapter is dedicated to Frozenstill, my first reviewer. Thank you :D

GHXJW

"Because," House said calmly. "I was sort of hoping you were."

"Really," Wilson said, trying to disguise his surprise. "Why is that?"

"I'm not sure." Hearing Gregory House speak those words in utmost sincerity had to be one of the weirdest things Wilson had ever heard. "It's just, I was watching you this morning, and you were making…noises, with your omelet…"

Wilson stared at him for a long time, and House stared back. "And?"

House shrugged. "It just sort of made me hope you were gay," he reasoned. "I don't know. It was strange. It never happened to me. But it was there. Maybe it's been there the whole time."

"And why did you only notice it today?" Wilson asked, sitting on the bed.

"Because today, the light was different." House looked at him again. "All of the lights." The drugs were wearing off, the sleepy look was dissipating quickly from House's eyes. "Wilson," he rumbled.

"Yes?"

"You're definitely gay." With that, House got up and left Wilson gaping in his wake.

GHXJW

He wasn't quite tall, but lean with long legs and beautiful hands, House noticed. They looked as though they were carved out of marble, smooth and dramatically shadowed even in the limited light in his office. Pianists' hands, a part of him whispered, but he shook it off.

His face was open but clever, mouth quirked in a secret smile, dark hair falling across his forehead, eyes dark and focused.

"Nice to meet you," Wilson said, leaning across House's desk to grasp the man's hand for a second. House felt a strange resentment. He shouldn't feel resentful that Wilson wanted to shake hands. Really. What was this world coming to? First that thing with the omelet, then this?

"Pleasure's mine, Dr. Wilson," replied the man.

"Who's the Jap?" House asked rudely, and Wilson winced.

"Alex Rurigawa, M.D.," Cuddy said, giving him a sharp look. "Sorry, this is Dr. House."

"So you speak English?" House asked loudly in mock surprise, resuming the task of tossing a tennis ball against the wall.

"I doubt Dr. Cuddy would have hired me if I didn't," Rurigawa replied. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Huh. I wouldn't put it past her," House huffed darkly, throwing the tennis ball with extra vigor. "She hired a Brit as well. Can't understand a word he says."

Rurigawa made a noncommittal noise that could have been a chuckle. "Nice to meet you Dr. House."

"M.D.," House finished.

"Yeah. Nice meeting you." With a smile that livened up his solemn face surprisingly, Rurigawa left, glancing back once as the glass door shut behind him.

"What's he do?" House asked Cuddy, still tossing his tennis ball against the wall.

"Hematology," Wilson answered.

House turned to him. "How do you know?"

"Name tag."

"Wonder how long he'll last….hey, Wilson, wanna bet?" House asked. "Him against that oncologist that came in earlier today, Trent, or whatever."

"Aaron Trent?" Cuddy's voice was edged with a warning that House chose to blithely ignore.

"Yeah, that one with the bad dye job. Say, fifty bucks, Wilson?"

Wilson looked at him guardedly. "Do you promise that you won't try kick Trent out of the hospital as soon as possible?"

"I can't promise that," House said, grinning wickedly.

"Then I'm not betting." Cuddy nodded at Wilson approvingly.

"Oh, well done, you," House groaned sarcastically. "Depriving yourself of fifty dollars."

"If you're so sure that he's going to leave so soon, why are you betting on him?" Wilson asked frankly.

"So I'll have someone to bet against," House replied matter-of-factly.

Wilson couldn't help but agree with this bit of House-ian logic. "Okay."

"So," Cuddy began complacently. "Do you like your new team?"

"It's just like the old one. And guess what I did with the old one?" House threw the ball a little harder, for emphasis.

"House, you know it costs money to hire people."

"And it takes no money to fire them! Now, if I were you, I'd pick the latter." House gave her a look that was designed to be innocent but somehow came off as totally the opposite. "Although, if I were you, I'd wear a better blouse. This one's distracting."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, sighed, pursed her lips. "They'll be here at eight tomorrow."

House started juggling with another ball. "Who?"

"Your new team," Cuddy said exasperatedly. "Trent, Parker and Rurigawa."

"Do you like Cuban pool boys?" House asked inexplicably.

Cuddy gave him a long look. "I don't want any of them running to my office on the first day. That's all."

"Do you think Mrs. Bloom likes Cuban pool boys?" House asked again.

"Who is Mrs. Bloom?"

"That's it." He suddenly sat up straight and began to scribble on his whiteboard. Then he turned to Cuddy and Wilson, who were staring at him. "Bye!"

Cuddy and Wilson walked out of the office. "He definitely needs a team," Cuddy remarked. Wilson agreed.

The events of two days ago, namely House's bout with the sodium thiopental, were unspoken of, but by no means forgotten. It was a little line of tension stretching between the two of them, to put it into one of House's beloved metaphors. Truth be told, Wilson had been thinking about what House had said far more than was healthy. In fact, he had been dissecting all of those snaky little statements to within an inch of their snaky little lives. What did House mean, he _hoped _Wilson was gay? Did he mean it in a, 'I hope you're gay because then I don't have to rent a tux for your next wedding' sort of way, or (dare he think it) in a 'I hope you're gay because I'm extremely attracted to you' way?

And this wasn't even getting to the part where he wondered if he actually was gay. Because he didn't think he was. But then House had called him closeted. Maybe he could figure this out mathematically…but that would require him having a given fact, and the entire point of him being so confused was that there wasn't a given, except maybe his friendship that maybe wasn't only a friendship, but only if House meant it in the second way, and if he WAS gay, and...Wilson turned around, stared at House again through the glass walls, head pounding.

House was reclining in his office chair, glaring at his whiteboard as if it had personally slighted him. Tapping to some unheard tune, he straightened up, and drew a great, sweeping arrow from one symptom to another, then write something on a piece of paper Wilson was sure was a napkin. Could it be possible that he had…'feelings' for House? Could it be possible that he was in the closet? Was House just screwing with his mind? What did House think? What should Wilson _do_? The headache was coming back.


	3. The Mini Ducklings

A/N: Thank you for all of your reviews! They made me giggle in the middle of class, which earned me several weird looks, but that's OK because they totally made my day :D

Dedicated to all of you: Frozenstill, Ibuko, soulache, banjkazfan.

GHXJW

When Wilson awoke, it was four in the morning. The air was still and quiet, the only noises the humming of the refrigerator and the occasional car whooshing by in the wet. And the rain, the soft hushing of the rain thrumming like a pulse on the glass. A tinge of gray fog haunted the taut horizon, swirling in the tempest. Wilson rubbed his eyes and yawned, resolving to get back to sleep. He rolled over on the lumpy couch. Bumps and hard, sharp springs seemed to make even lying down flat uncomfortable; Wilson wondered how he had gotten to sleep in the first place. He stretched out, pulled the blanket tighter around him. Four sixteen. Still no luck. The rain against the window was even more insistent, and the tinge of dawn had grown to beams peeking out from behind the curtains. I should buy House a new couch, Wilson thought. I should buy him a sofa bed. He turned over again, and a particularly vicious spring drove into his spine.

It wasn't even a conscious decision, but suddenly, Wilson found himself padding toward the bedroom, clutching the blanket around him. He creaked the door open. House was sprawled all over the king-sized thing, and arm flung across what was otherwise an entirely empty side. It could have easily accommodated House, Wilson and the ducklings. Not that that was a comfortable thought. Shoving the arm aside, Wilson clambered into bed, and despite the rays of light pushing into the room, he promptly fell asleep.

When Wilson woke for the second time, it was eight, and the light was considerably brighter. He opened his eyes to see House staring at him. "What the hell, Wilson," he said with a dramatic roll of the eyes and a painful wince as he got off the bed. "I knew you were gay, but notthat gay."

This was his first mention about 'The Incident', as Wilson had dubbed it, and it definitely woke Wilson up. He watched House intently as clothes were shoved from their position on the floor; journals flung back onto the cluttered desk. "Why, Wilson! I never thought you had it in, you shameless thing. If you want to watch me dress, I'll need something in return. I'm not that easy."

"Meaning," Wilson said amusedly, "that you are, to an extent, easy."

"But not as easy as you are," House retorted, delving in his closet for something wearable, preferably washed.

"I'm not easy," Wilson objected, getting up.

"Last time you disagreed with me, you had to inject me with sodium thiopental," House remarked, pulling out a red t-shirt, worn and faded jeans and the infamous leather jacket, and tossing the clothes onto the bed.

"Are you saying that we should just agree to disagree?" Wilson asked.

House sighed. "No, I'm saying you should just concede the point and admit I'm right."

"It's late." Wilson changed the subject, looking for an unwrinkled dress shirt, passable trousers and one of three ties he had at House's apartment.

"Ha. Wise choice, Wilson. Now, make me breakfast." He limped to the bathroom, clothes in hand. Wilson wondered what he should cook as he buttoned a mostly-smooth shirt, eyes still scanning the room for those evasive ties.

GHXJW

"Morning, sunshine," House said loudly as he walked into his office.

"You're late," remarked the woman. She was pretty, with wavy red hair and bright blue eyes.

"Parker, right?" He squinted at her. "You remind me of someone. In a bad way." She looked at him with wide blue eyes. "Wait. Stand up." She did so nervously. "Skirt is at least three inches above knee. Good signs, but you could use a little improvement." She gaped at him. House had that general effect on people.

"Trent," he snapped.

"Yes?" The blond Brit stood up, straightening his maroon tie. He was handsome in a very traditional way, straight nose, white teeth.

"'Yes'?" House mocked his accent. "You also remind me of someone. In a bad way. You even have the same fashion sense. Or, rather, lack thereof." Trent peered at House, mouth slightly open.

"Rurigawa." Accordingly, the hematologist stood up. "Are you ready for some wild sex?"

"Yes…?"

"Well, that's too bad, because you're not getting any anytime soon. Unless you and the Pom…you know." House gesticulated wildly with his cane and grinned in his unhinged way. Rurigawa and Trent looked at each other awkwardly before sitting back down. "Now that I know all of your names, let's move onto something more interesting."

"The patient?" Parker offered.

"Not interesting. What color is your underwear?" House asked, sitting at the head of the table.

Parker stared at him, unnerved, for another moment before continuing weakly: "Caucasian male, mid-twenties – "

"Does it have lace?" House interrupted.

Wilson picked this choice moment to open the door and poke his head in the office. "Dr. House, are you available for a consult?"

House looked at Wilson, then back at his new team. "His does," he said. Parker gasped.

"Mine does what?" Wilson inquired irritably. "House, can you do a consult or not?"

"Wilson, are you itchy in your naughty place?" House asked theatrically. Trent and Rurigawa pretended to read the file intently, while Parker chewed her attractive lip.

"I guess not," Wilson sighed, and swept out of the office.

GHXJW

"House, I have a patient in five minutes." Wilson checked his clock again. "Three, to be more exact."

"My team's doing an MRI and a CT," House said. "I'm bored."

Wilson sighed impatiently. "Can't you be bored somewhere else?"

House pretended to consider this. "No."

"House, if you don't get out of my office right now – "

The door of his office opened. A nurse stepped in. "You're needed at the pediatrics ward, Dr. Wilson."

"Thank you." The nurse left with a smile. "That'll be my patient. I have to go, House." Wilson picked up his stethoscope, penlight and files.

"Well, it's convenient, but I can walk." House got up, reaching for his cane. Wilson gave him a look. "I mean, limp, sorry," House amended.

"Not the point," Wilson muttered as they stepped into the elevator.

"Are you sleeping with that nurse?" House asked, completely sidestepping the issue at hand.

"No. In case you haven't noticed, I've been living at your place for the past four days or so." Maybe if Wilson stared hard enough at the ceiling of the elevator, House would go away.

House hmmed. "I knewsomething was different," he said finally. "Oh, right!" Feigned surprise. "I woke up with a totally random person in bed next to me."

"House, your couch – "

"Man, I must've been really stoned. What do you think, Wilson?" They strode out of the elevator, Wilson softening his turn into the pediatrics corridor so House could keep up.

"I think you need a new couch," Wilson replied. "Preferably a sofa bed."

"Dr. Wilson!" a child's voice called. Wilson gave House a last, long look, and stepped into the room, House on his heels.

"Kara," Wilson said warmly.

"Who's he?" Kara asked, looking at House with innocent eyes.

"Kara, this is Dr. House. He's my friend." Wilson said it awkwardly, struggling to find words to describe House succinctly enough.

"Hello, Kara," House said, surprisingly civil. The omnipresent heavily sardonic tone was diminished, and he was wearing a light smile. Wilson was immediately suspicious. "How're you feeling?"

"Better," the girl said, still cautiously watching House. He sat in the visitor's chair, a completely non-threatening move. Wilson kept smiling, but his mind was whirring. What the hell was House doing? It was nice of him. Too nice of him. Either he wanted something, or…he let it all go in a sigh. Time to focus on the patient.

"You'll be leaving soon, don't worry," Wilson assured the girl. "Breathe in." He placed the stethoscope against her chest as she complied. "What's the first thing you want to do when you go back to school?" he asked her gently.

"P.E.! At school, they have these really big gym balls," the child began.

"Who's Jim?" House smirked.

"House!" Wilson rounded on him. Kara watched them through wary eyes. "P.E.?" he probed the girl.

After a moment of contemplation, she continued. "So, yeah, the balls. I love to play with them."

Wilson thanked whatever god was responsible for making House's pager go off at that moment. House smiled again, disarmingly sincerely. "I have to go now. Nice meeting you, Kara. See you later, Wilson." He limped out the door.

"Dr. Wilson?"

"Yes?"

"Maybe it's rude," she started carefully. "But what happened to Dr. House's leg?"

"It's a long story. I'll tell you sometime. Breathe in again for me?"

GHXJW

"So." House wheeled around, wielding a whiteboard marker.

"Could be just fatigue. She is a teacher," Parker jumped in.

"Or it could be anemia," Rurigawa suggested from the coffee machine.

"Says the hematologist. Fitting, I suppose. Trent?" House looked to him.

"Frankly, I don't see why we're even taking this case. General tiredness, swelling of the joints, slight fever. It's just fatigue." Trent shrugged. "There's nothing really special."

"Something's wrong with her. Have we run any tests?" House turned to accept a cup of coffee from Rurigawa, taking a sip. "Wow."

Rurigawa looked up from where he was passing Parker and Trent cups. "Sorry?"

"You're, like, the only person who took that course in coffee making. Everyone else's coffee sucks." House took another sip. It was hot and strong, rich in a strange way. Rurigawa smiled. Again, House was surprised by the smile: the sincerity, the understanding. "It's still not as good as Wilson's omelets though."

"You can't compare the two. One's a beverage, the other's food. Secondly, Wilson had a kitchen at his disposal. I have a coffee maker," Rurigawa pointed out. "You don't think it's anemia?"

"We haven't run any tests. We can't be sure." His team looked at him expectantly. "Although I suppose we could sit here and hypothesize a little longer on the vague symptoms, decide she has lupus and start her on an IV drip." Rurigawa stood up reluctantly, pulling on his lab coat. Parker and Trent followed him slowly. "Thank you. Go prod her in every way possible, and come back when you've found something," House commanded, sitting back in his chair. His leg was starting to hurt again, a dull ache against the backdrop.

Cuddy walked in. "House. Clinic." She turned and left.

"Why?" he wailed down the hallway. "Don't leave me! You can't stop fate!"

"Exactly. So get your ass down to the clinic now." She stepped into the elevator with what House could've sworn was a sadistic smile.

Muttering under his breath about Bitches and Responsibility and Screaming Babies, House made his way down to the clinic, faster than usual, because today, the phrase 'agonizingly slowly' was becoming realized. "Dr. House, exam room three." Cuddy handed him a dreaded dark red file. He shot her a pleading look. "But my doctor told me to take it easy."

"You're doctor's crazy," she informed him. "Exam room three."

He paused before opening the door. He hated clinic duty. He really, truly hated this insipid part of his day. He prayed Miss Brown would go into cardiac arrest or something relatively interesting so he could leave the snot-nosed kids someone who deserved clinic duty, like Foreman. He took a deep breath and stepped into the room. "Hello."

"My son has a rash on his tush," the woman began immediately. "It's big, it's red, it won't go away and he keeps scratching it. David, don't." She swatted the baby's hand away from its position in his pants.

"He has a rash on his tush." House pretended to consider this whilst examining the red splotch on the child's rear. "Would it really kill you to say ass? Or even butt?" The woman looked at him, aghast.

"You're Dr. House?" she managed finally.

"Diaper rash," he interceded loudly. "I'll get you some cream, you spread it on his tush after a bath or whatever, he'll be fine."

"Seriously?" the woman asked, taking the prescription.

"Actually, I was lying to make you feel better. He'll be dead within a week, that cream will give him a few extra days, though. I am sorry." House gave her his best pitying look.

She glared at him. "Thank you," she huffed, snatching up her baby. She turned a last time before leaving. "It's seriously just a diaper rash?"

"It's either that…or an STD." He grinned. She gasped and slammed the door behind her. House rolled his eyes. It was not physically possible that humans possessed so little intelligence, yet, were still on the top of the food chain. Despite this fact, the clinic still existed.

He stepped back out and sidled next to where Cuddy was looking through files. "Funny typo on the door there, Cuddy. You should really get it fixed."

She glanced up at him. "Why?"

"It should say 'Welcome to Hell', but instead, it says 'exam room three'. Strange, huh?"

He limped back to the exam room, hearing Cuddy call, "Mr. Terrence James, exam room three with Dr. House." Just as Mr. James walked into the exam room, his pager beeped. Running as fast as possible with his ruined leg, House scrambled past the crowd in the clinic.

"Saved by the beep," he couldn't help but snark at Cuddy as he rushed by.

GHXJW

"So, what's up?" he asked, entering the room suavely.

"The patient is stable," Trent said.

"You paged me to tell me the patient is stable?" House asked in mock incredulity. "How could you pull me from clinic duty just to tell me that? It's the best part of the day!"

"But her fever's rising dangerously," Parker said.

"Ah. Did you induce it?"

"No, we were just running tests and – "

Rurigawa looked at him. "Her heart rate's spiking too. Dangerously…Parker, get a defibrillator ready." She obeyed him wordlessly. House raised an eyebrow at him, but he merely shrugged back.

"Her heart's going to kill itself at that rate," Trent remarked, moving closer. They held their breath as the tone sounded.

"Charging two fifty…clear!" They all peered back up at the screen. "We have a pulse," Parker declared.

"I want the three of you on rotation, watching and observing the patient. Parker and Trent, you're first." Rurigawa started to leave quickly, as Parker and Trent groaned and drew up chairs, but House stopped him with his cane. "Lunch?" he asked cryptically.

Rurigawa smiled slightly. "Okay."

"How did you know," House initiated, as they waited in the cafeteria line. "That she was going to have a heart attack?"

"Her heart rate nearly doubled itself in under two minutes. If it kept going, it would blow itself up." Rurigawa shrugged again, helped himself to a sandwich.

"But how did you know?" Trust House to be persistent.

"All her systems are weakening. Kidney, liver, lungs…I think it's autoimmune. It made sense that her heart would go next."

House stopped, several hungry and disgruntled nurses and residents glaring at him. "Huh." He started shuffling along in line again. "You pay."

"What?" Rurigawa turned to him, disbelief etched all over his face.

"I'm your boss."

Rurigawa sighed. "Thus, you make more money than me. In fact, you should be paying, really."

"Since you put out a good argument…" House sighed dramatically. "You're still paying." Rurigawa pulled out his wallet and unenthusiastically handed a twenty and a ten to the cashier, who looked on sympathetically. "My new bitch," House said by way of explanation, and sat at nearest vacant table.

"So." Rurigawa was watching him warily. "Aw, don't give me that look. It breaks my heart." Rurigawa shrugged (he seemed to be doing that a lot) and took a bite of his salad. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Does it matter? Do you care?"

"Yes, and yes." House eyed the croutons on Rurigawa's Caesar hopefully.

"Actually, I don't really date," Rurigawa said.

House faked an expression of exaggerated shock. "A handsome thing like you?" The syllables were ridden with irony and heavy sarcasm, but only to mask the actual surprise House felt. Rurigawa didn't date? What did that mean, exactly? "Are you married?"

"No." Rurigawa glanced at his left hand. "Not quite planning on it either."

"Are you gay?" House shot at him.

Rurigawa took another bite of salad. "It's just the way I see it, a marriage would be the hardest on the wife. I'd never be home. And I'd make all my children hypochondriacs."

"Clever deflection. You still didn't answer my question."

Rurigawa glared at him, then pushed his salad onto House's plate. "I know you want it, anyway." He got up. "I'll go switch with Parker, or Trent."

GHXJW

A/N: Thanks again to my reviewers!


	4. Coincidence

A/N: So I logged in and checked my stats…and…OMG! I had twelve lovely reviews! Thanks so much, all of you. You keep me inspired :D

GHXJW

"I'm sorry. It's the best we could do, Mr. Hall – "

The bald man smiled. "Call me Darren."

"Darren. It looks like the tumor just…" Wilson trailed off, letting the test results do the talking.

"How long do I have?" Darren asked, voice quavering only the slightest bit.

"Up to five months," Wilson informed him quietly. "I'm sorry. We tried – "

Darren cut him off again by placing a hand on his. "I know. I'm not mad at you." They sat in silence for some time, until another man came in.

"Darren?"

"Carl!"

Wilson stepped aside and let them greet each other, keeping a perfunctory smile in place.

Darren introduced them. "Carl, this is Dr. Wilson."

"Nice to meet you." Wilson's hand was taken into a firm, momentary grip. "I'm Carl Jansen, Darren's…" He gave Darren a 'help me' look.

"Boyfriend," Daren supplied helpfully.

Wilson tried to mask his shock. "Oh. Yes, of course. Nice to meet you."

"Are you homophobic, Dr. Wilson?" Carl asked concernedly, drawing up a chair.

"No, not at all!" Wilson answered too quickly. This was way too coincidental, with The Incident and House wanting him to ride the bike and everything. "I just had no idea!"

Carl smiled. "Oh. So, what's happening with Darren?"

Wilson looked at the two, at their conjoined hands, the way their legs nudged the others', the totally easy way they had with each other. "Five months," he choked out, then cleared his throat. "Darren has up to five months to live."

"Five months?" Carl repeated hollowly. "Five months?"

"So the tests indicate," Wilson answered quietly.

"But we just thought…I mean, we had…!" Carl was struggling not to break down completely, and he looked back from Wilson to Darren. "Honey?"

House, being the person with the best timing, limped in that very moment. "Hello, dying person and dying person's friend/lover/father/brother/uncle/slave/male companion. Wilson, I need a consult."

"Not now, House," Wilson said from between gritted teeth. What was wrong with House? He seemed to lack the general 'tact' gene every other normal human being seemed to possess. Carl and Darren stared at House, agape. "House, I'm busy now. Leave."

House, due to a fault in genetics (as decided by Wilson), ignored him. "Female half-Latino; that should interest you, you've always been hot for – "

"House. Leave. Now." He was almost yelling. He was a needle's eye away from yelling. Fortunately, despite missing the 'tact' gene, House had an extra long strand of the 'people reading' gene. So he left.

"Sorry. He has…" Wilson took a deep breath and let it out. "Issues. He has issues."

"Will the five months have to be spent in the hospital?" Darren asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. You'll still be on meds, and a drip and everything…but at this stage, there's just nothing…" Wilson couldn't bring himself to continue. He rarely got emotionally attached to his patients, but the look in Carl's eyes was going to make his heart break in two. Messily. With lots of blood and ripped guts.

GHXJW

"Can you save your obscene comments for a time I'm not telling my patient he's going to die within five months?" Wilson asked House irritably.

"No. It was an urgent consult."

Wilson sighed. "What was it?" They stepped into the elevator.

"I needed to consult you on whether these sneakers still look new."

If Wilson had been close to shouting while with the patient, the self-control needed then was nothing compared to now. There were a million things he wanted to say, but what came out was: "So there was no Latino female?"

"So you were interested," House remarked, too casually.

"No, House…"

"So you are gay." Wilson chose not to dignify that with an answer, so they stood in silence for a little while.

"Remember the God kid?" House said. "The one who thought he was a healer but actually had herpes?"

"Yes," Wilson replied cautiously. "What about him?"

"Remember the Sexy Cancer Lady?"

"…No."

"You slept with her. Remember her now?"

"Do you mean _Grace_?" Wilson shot back tartly.

House shrugged impatiently. "Yeah, whatever. Do you remember how her tumor went into remission because he touched her?"

Wilson frowned slightly, then looked at House. "You're kidding, right?"

"No!" House contradicted. "No, I'm serious."

"House, it's dangerous and it's stupid and it's reckless and it's a thousand other things and Cuddy won't let you do it anyway," Wilson rattled off.

"Why not?" countered House. "He has the exact same type of cancer as her. Liver – roughly same size, they had almost the same amount of time left…"

"So you want to purposely give a dying man herpes so he can live another year or two?" Wilson asked incredulously.

"No. Asking you if you remember those cases is just the code word for, 'Do you wanna go bowling?'" House said sarcastically.

Wilson sighed. "It's dangerous," he reiterated.

"I'm always dangerous, Jimmy," House said, and limped out of the elevator with a flourish.

GHXJW

"Absolutely not," Cuddy said, throwing the file back onto her desk.

"Cuddy, it could save the patient's life," House said seriously.

"Absolutely not. It's ridiculous. It's downright reckless!" Cuddy exclaimed. "I can't believe you actually thought I would approve of this!"

"You and Wilson…" House began. "…Have no sense of humor."

"The thing is, House, that patient's lives aren't jokes," Cuddy snapped.

"Funny," House said, and limped out.

He was seriously pissed off. First at Wilson for rejecting his plan and then Cuddy for siding with him, however unconsciously. His team would definitely feel it…one more lovesick glance from Trent to Parker and he thought he might vomit.


	5. True Love's First

A/N: Usually, I sit and pore over my chapters for ages until every word gives off just the right nuance. For this story, for some reason, I'm just rattling off what could be mass-produced crap. I PROMISE to all of you who want better writing (like myself…) that I will update and change everything to be much, much better later. Add more internalizing and whatnot.

Thanks to all my reviewers. You keep me going :D

AND of course I don't own House, TiVo, Steinway or Nora Roberts.

GHXJW

Eight p.m. House still wasn't home.

Not that this was a problem, but there was only so much TiVo and news and crappy movies you could watch and there was only a certain, healthy numbers of beers you could drink, even on the days you happened to have almost no paperwork. Incidentally, today was the day House had decided not to blow off paperwork or clinic duty or whatever, and now Wilson was bored.

Actually, it was a problem. He missed House's presence. Yes, it was ridiculous and he was overreacting. House was just working late on a case! That's all! Wilson had done it hundreds of times. Nothing to worry about. In fact, he should do some of his own paperwork. Not that there was much.

He could watch more TV, but frankly, it was boring the first time. Wilson sighed, put down his glass of water and took out his cell phone. Wilson, he told himself. If you do this, you will have lost the battle.

Imagine his surprise when he answered himself back. What battle?

The battle with yourself. You've been trying to convince yourself for the past ten years that you don't need House to function. You have your own life. You've been trying to convince yourself, and if you call now, you'll know that you need House like you need air.

Okay. But why is this such a pivotal moment?

Because. His mind sounded exasperated with itself. You're gay.

BACKTRACK. Me? Gay? No! House just told you that so…I mean, I don't…I never wanted…

Until now.

I'm going to call him, but it won't mean anything.

Yes, it will.

Wilson sighed and speed-dialed House's office. "House? This is Wilson. It's eight o'clock, just checking how you were. See you later."

There. That wasn't so bad. No confessions of burning passion, or anything. Just checking how he was. Fine.

But the difference? The difference is that now you know you love him. Like in THAT way.

Wilson shrugged and told himself to shut up and stop being juvenile and wondered whether it was possible to leave an argument that consisted of yourself and yourself.

There really was nothing to do. House barely survived at work – even then he needed his yo-yos and oversized tennis balls and cases to solve and a team to bitch at and whatnot. How did he survive at home? Then again, he was barely at home. He was a doctor, after all.

And of course, there was the piano. Wilson looked at the instrument in its little corner. Gleaming darkly in the streetlight, rigid and silent. Wilson put his water down and walked over to the piano.

He stared at it for some time. Then, he reached out a hand and brushed its black, lacquered surface with his fingertips. It was cold and smooth, hard and unforgiving. Fascinated, Wilson opened the piano, and touched the white keys. For a while, merely touching House's piano was enough. Then, he wanted to hear it. He wanted just one note. Just one little note. So he pressed down on a random white key and was startled by the resonating sadness of the note. He pressed the one next to it. It sounded awkward and discordant. The next note was affable, sweet and forgiving. They were familiar, all right, but Wilson wasn't about to let that feeling pervade his sense of boundaries. It was House's piano. House was the one with boundary issues! House, House, House…damn it. He was bored.

It was uncomfortable to play standing up, so he sat down, not quite being able to shake off the feeling he had just crossed the border into the realm of the forbidden. The seat was firm and steady beneath him, but he felt slightly wobbly and giddy. He tentatively rested his foot against the pedal, and drew his hands up into the air above the piano. He had never told House, but he had studied piano from when he was seven until he was twelve. Then, being the young idiot he was, he quit. And now he wished he'd kept at it.

Wilson pressed two notes down alternately, the black one, then the white one, first softly, then more confidently, and then he was playing Fur Elise. His hands moved purely through reflexive muscle memory, his foot releasing in time, his fingers catching all the notes clearly. It was the only piece he had ever been fully content and comfortable with; the way the notes ebbed and flowed, the notes coming stronger then weaker, how the high notes stayed on the edge, then gave way to gracefulness. He was totally absorbed.

He didn't hear the roar of the motorcycle, the click of the lock, the door slamming. He only stopped playing when House whacked his leg with his cane. "House! What the hell?"

"You were playing the piano," House said, voice void of the usual sarcasm. The remark was ordinary enough in itself; Wilson couldn't tell whether he was upset or not.

"Sorry," he said, just in case. "I was…bored." GOD, he sounded young and immature. "I mean, it was – "

House cut him off whilst limping off. "Fur Elise? How old were you when you quit, six?"

"Twelve," he answered, following House into the kitchen. House was leaning over, rooting around in his fridge for a beer. "Here." Wilson reached across House's body, taking out the beers he had stuck at the back of the fridge.

House caught his wrist tightly, almost uncomfortably so. Wilson looked first at the hand gripping his wrist, then at the man attached to the wrist. It was in this moment that Wilson really understood House's pain. The pain of being a mere mortal, of being trapped in this body that provided no comfort, no solace in the darkest nights. Of course House, having some sort of God complex, didn't let this show, or even bother him, on good days. This had not been a good day.

Wilson, having a martyr complex, was drawn straight into the vivid blue of House's eyes, not melting his insides as according to Nora Roberts, but rather turning him inside out. "House?" it was a question, a gentle probing as Wilson set the beers on the counter.

House straightened and slammed the refrigerator door shut, still holding Wilson's wrist. Wilson let his hand hang limply, accepting that House wouldn't let go until he was ready. He winced internally at the inane cliché and cheesiness of that phrase. House wouldn't let go until he was ready. It was revolting, almost. It was like being –

Coherent thought, however cheesy and cliché, was cut off as House leaned forward and pressed his lips to Wilson's. They stood there, frozen for a moment in the sheer anomaly of their actions (not bad, just different), then Wilson closed his eyes and let the warmth seep gently through his system. House's hand left his wrist and encircled his waist firmly, and his lips worked gradually more aggressively: nipping and licking, and Wilson didn't know quite where to put his hands so he gripped House's forearms to prevent himself from totally keeling over from the _sensations_, and where the HELL had House learned to kiss like that? Because it was wet and hot and touching that particular sensitive spot in the corner of his mouth and –

And then, it stopped. Wilson's eyes flew open, blinking rapidly in the harsh light, and his lips tingled from the sudden coolness. House's face was inches from his, and he took in every line. It wasn't like he had been wanting and watching House for a long time, brooding over his unrequited love. He hadn't been consciously obsessed and swooning. But now that it had happened, it just felt…right. Him and House. It felt right. House was still looking at him as though simply staring might give him as of yet undiscovered telepathic powers.

"It feels right," Wilson said finally.

"Thank God for clichés, or you wouldn't have said anything, and I would have had to break the awkward silence," House replied, smirking. He picked up the two beers and limped off in the direction of the couch.

Wilson found himself smiling. "Oh, what a pain that would be," he said, and followed House into the living room.

"Yes," House agreed. "What a pain."


	6. Second Time Lucky

A/N: Well, after that cuteness in the last chapter I'm sort of reeling (I didn't know I was capable of The Kiss, but anyways). Thanks to my reviewers!

Oh, and SIDE NOTE: I don't think this story will end up being Chase/Cameron. But maybe art will imitate life and we probably will end up with Trent/Parker. I'm not sure yet. I'd love to stick Foreman with Rurigawa and let House run wild on minority jokes, but they don't fit together unless I change Rurigawa and I don't want to do that.

So. Enough author ramblings. We'll see how it turns out, my alter ego and I.

GHXJW

For some reason Wilson was crying. He was sobbing, and screaming and crying like his very soul was wrenched and torn. He was trying to stop but he just couldn't – it was so unbearably sad and heavy and terrifying and it was so damn _dark_…then a door flew open and light flooded in. There was a silhouette against the brightness, and as Wilson squinted he could see.

It was House.

GHXJW

Wilson woke up. It had been quite a strange dream, to be sure. But it obviously represented something. Maybe his entire life had been shrouded in darkness and now that House loved him there was light. Wait. He wasn't sure if House loved him. House had kissed him. So, since House had kissed him, he was out of the dark. That made no sense whatsoever. He had kissed his wives. All of them. Maybe it was because he had kissed a man, thus getting himself out of the closet. But that would mean House was right. But surely, House was…as well? Or maybe, it meant something totally different. After all, House had been a silhouette, a shadow against the light. Did that mean anything?

Wilson decided he needed his head examined.

Sitting up, he realized he was in bed with House, who was still sleeping, the sheets and supplemental blankets covering him up to the nose. He reached out a hand to touch House, he wasn't even sure where or how or why, but then thought better of it. Then he checked the clock. Seven-thirty. There was something happening at seven-thirty.

Oh, yes. His board meeting.

Wilson flew into action, ripping off his sweatshirt and pants and tugging on his slacks and socks, looking around wildly for the daily search for his tie. Strangely, both his shirt and tie were draped over a chair. As he walked towards it, House turned over. "I told her you weren't going," he said, voice still clouded with sleep. Wilson stopped and turned back around.

"What was your excuse?" he asked, wriggling back under the covers. It was November, damn it, and it was _cold_.

"Don't worry, it was suitably pornographic." House rolled back over. "I told her you'd be there by ten."

"That's really late," Wilson remarked without venom. "House, yesterday – "

He was cut off by cold lips pressed randomly to his jaw. "I need breakfast, Wilson. You?" And he limped off to the bathroom.

Wilson sighed and pulled on his sweatshirt. He shouldn't expect House to be anymore articulate in expressing feelings and emotions, even now that they were…what were they? Just friends, who had shared a kiss? Or where they 'going out'? Or were they going to become friends with benefits?

After berating himself thoroughly for becoming so philosophical, Wilson bent down to the fridge, glancing at the handle. He would never look at it the same way. House had frozen strawberries, for some strange reason, and Wilson stuck them in the microwave. He didn't want to cook anything finicky today, and anything with flour and precise measurements fell under 'finicky.' So that ruled out pancakes and waffles.

But House loved his macadamia nut pancakes.

Wilson sighed and pulled out the flour.

GHXJW

He was just getting settled when Cuddy rapped on his door and entered. "Hi, Wilson," she said. "How're you feeling?"

Wilson played along. "Better, thank you."

She put papers on his desk. "Here are the minutes for the meeting. There's some really exciting news!"

"What's that?" he asked her. She certainly looked excited – she was smiling as though even House couldn't crush her mood.

"You've been invited to international conferences" she burst out.

"Oh. Great," he said, not quite understanding why this was good.

"Oh, Wilson!" She began pacing. "We've been invited to two conferences in the Far East and Pacific. It'll be excellent for the reputation of the hospital!" she raved.

"Where are we going?" The enormity of what she was telling him began to hit Wilson.

"First up is Japan, then Australia." Her cheer was slightly infectious.

"Is it just me and you, or…?

"You, me, House, Chase and Rurigawa." She smiled brightly. "It's a month from now."

He smiled back. "I'm definitely going. Thanks a lot, Cuddy." She beamed again and turned to leave. She was about to open the door when he asked, "Does House know?"

"Not yet!" The sound of her heels clicking down the hallway faded out as Wilson finished taking all of his files out of his briefcase.

Japan and Australia. He wondered what House would say.

GHXJW

"Wilson!"

He didn't know that he had been waiting all day for that voice. "House." He didn't look up until he heard two pairs of feet step into the room instead of the usual irregular one. "Rurigawa."

Rurigawa smiled nervously. "Hi, Wilson."

"Baby-sit this smug ass, will you, Jimmy?" House said loudly. Rurigawa's lips twitched. "He was _right_, and I was wrong," House continued darkly. "Now he'll stay in here."

"I was right, but I wasn't smug about it," Rurigawa protested.

"Sit," House commanded.

"We have another case, House," Rurigawa reminded him gently. House threw him a long, dark look.

"Go tell the other idiots to start brainstorming." Rurigawa nodded and made to leave. "Oh, and you get to use the whiteboard," House added. With a slight smile, Rurigawa shut the door quietly behind him.

"Seems okay," Wilson ventured cautiously. It was strange. Very strange. House was treating one of his team like…(gasp!) almost like an equal. House hmmphed and swung his yo-yo around for a bit. "Did you hear about the conference?" Wilson asked.

"Cuddy came into my office this morning."

"And?"

"She looked so happy, I just had to ask her why she didn't hire male strippers so often. Then she told me it was just a conference, so I shoved her out. Told her the unnecessary cheeriness might be contagious."

Wilson laughed. "Well, it'll be good for the hospital."

House looked at him calculatingly. "Sex is good for the hospital," he said finally. "Why do we never get that?"

"You could, I suppose," Wilson said pensively. "If you really wanted to."

"And what if I really want to?" House asked slowly, still staring him with that piercing, bright blue gaze. Wilson physically felt his knees go weak. He didn't know exactly why, but he felt that the answer was caught there, somewhere in that intense gaze.

"Then," he said, as offhandedly as possible, "You'll have to find someone to do it with." His face was burning. Why couldn't he just play it cool, like House, who merely lifted an eyebrow and said:

"What if I have?"

"Then" Wilson said shakily. "I guess you're in luck." The smolder in House's eyes went up a notch. He got up and limped inhumanly quickly to Wilson's desk, where he seized the back of Wilson's head, nearly giving him whiplash, and then those warm lips were on his again, tongue sweeping behind his front teeth, leaving a faintly bittersweet aftertaste that Wilson couldn't quite identify, lips working deftly to suck in the right places, and that fizzy feeling at the pit of his stomach that hadn't been there for so long but had been desperately yearned for, even if subconsciously, and Wilson wondered if his returning kiss was having the same effect on House, and the thought that it might be made all the feeling rush _down _his spine and into his-

House's pager beeped. He reluctantly broke away to glance down at the electronic device, and grimaced at what it said. After muttering something like, "Screw it", he kissed Wilson again, long and sweet and slow.

Then someone began pounding on the door. "House," Rurigawa called. "We need you to confirm our diagnoses, and if it's right, we need help formulating an accurate prognosis."

House's fingers were still stroking the back of Wilson's neck almost inadvertently, and his touch was still making Wilson twist under the warmth. "I should go," House said. Wilson said nothing, but removed House's hand from his neck and shoulder, not without great unwillingness. House straightened and looked at Wilson inscrutably. "I will see _you_ later," he said, a bit huskily, then limped toward the door. Wilson heard him snap at Rurigawa irritably: "Jank."

"What's that?"

"Yank plus Japanese. Ta-da, I'm an inventor. Who's dying?"

Wilson smiled and touched his lips before going back to his paperwork. He didn't know what the hell it was or what the hell it meant, but it made him feel like giggling unstoppably.

A/N: I'm not sure why, but I'm becoming quite fond of the Emily Dickenson-esque hyphens…


	7. Lollipops, Lies and Preludes

"House, we have two cases."

"No. Why?"

"Well, we used to have two cases."

House looked at Rurigawa, then at Trent, then at Parker. "…And?"

"The first case died this morning." House pressed his lips together, sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Which idiot let this happen?"

Trent and Parker exchanged a meaningful glance. Parker opened her mouth, blue eyes still on Trent. "I did," Rurigawa interjected. "It was my watch."

"You are taking my clinic hours," House shot at him. "And you get to have lunch with me later. Trent, Parker. What's the update on our 'second' case?" Rurigawa left, Trent and Parker began rattling out ideas.

Rurigawa went down to the clinic. "Cuddy," he said, as brightly as possible. "Hi."

"Your hours are done for this week," she said, consulting her checklist.

"I'm doing House's," he said.

Cuddy frowned. "Why? No, you can't do that."

"I let a patient die," Rurigawa stated simply. "I have to do his clinic hours."

"So now," Cuddy said angrily, "he's turning patient care into an incentive-based game?"

"No, Cuddy, it's not like that." Rurigawa placated her. "I mean, it sort of is, but I want to do it. I have to get away from it for a while." Cuddy nodded slowly, understanding him yet still wanting to go upstairs and shout at House. "I'll do whatever."

"We need some people in the pediatrics ward today, actually," Cuddy informed him, willing herself to calm down. "You good with kids?"

Rurigawa grinned. "Okay, I guess. They're not my favorite people."

"Well, you're going to be the supervisor today," Cuddy said, handing him a stack of files. "Good luck."

Rurigawa took the files, smiled again, and left, walking briskly in the direction of the pediatrics ward.

GHXJW

House sidled up beside her. "Cuddy, why do you hire idiots?"

"I don't know why I hired you," she replied blankly, sorting files.

"First Foreman," he said, totally ignoring her comment, "then Trent and Parker. Why?"

"So Rurigawa is not an idiot." Blue, red, blue, blue, red…the paperwork really was endless.

"No, only partially. And then I stuck him in the clinic, so now I'm stuck with two idiots who can't even diagnose!" House looked frustrated, and Cuddy decided she liked it.

"Hmm," she commented tonelessly. "Let's go pick up Wilson then check on Rurigawa."

"Why?" Nobody but House had ever been able to perfect the blend of sarcasm, wonder and venom into a single word.

"Because, it'll be fun!" Cuddy picked up four files. "Come on." He stared at her, muttered something about Crazy Bitches and followed her as she strode to Wilson's office and rapped on the door. "Dr. Wilson, you're needed in the pediatrics ward." He came out, shrugging on a lab coat.

"Why?" His 'why' was slightly breathless and innocent.

"For fun," House intoned sardonically. Wilson gave him a questioning look but followed Cuddy. When they got to the ward, Chase was already there.

"You owe me fifty," she said to him as she stepped up beside him. He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, I guess I do." He handed her two twenties and a ten.

Rurigawa was sitting in the middle of the floor, Kara on one side and another girl on the other. He was holding a length of wood and gesturing around it, talking animatedly as they listened avidly. "What did you bet on?" Wilson asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Whether Rurigawa would be good with kids."

Wilson nodded, still looking perplexed. "Right. And this is important because?"

Chase shrugged a shoulder with studied nonchalance. "Not sure, actually."

"Cuddy wants to marry him," House said. "Kids are first on the list; next she'll be trying to have sex with him."

"Dr. Rurigawa," Cuddy called, after shooting House a death glare. "Your shift ended forty minutes ago." He looked up, completely nonplussed, still balancing the wood on his fingertips.

"Oh. Thanks, Dr. Cuddy." He stood up, and his knees cracked audibly. "Whoops. See you later, guys." Cuddy smiled and left. House, Chase and Wilson stood there, House's fingers tapping contemplatively on the head of his cane, Chase staring wide-eyed, Wilson with his hands on his hips. "You are such a sadist," Rurigawa told House, smirking.

"It's part of my inherent nature." The four of them stood there awkwardly.

Chase held out a hand. "I'm Dr. Chase. I'm in Surgery."

"I'm Rurigawa. I work under House." He smiled, genuinely this time. That smile really caught House off-guard every time. It reminded him of Wilson, somehow. It had the same element of overt kindness. "Sorry, my hands are a little…dirty, right now." His fingers were covered in blue and red marker, his veins and arteries diagrammed in little dashes.

"What were you talking to the kids about?" Chase asked. Out of lack of anything to do, they had begun to walk to the cafeteria.

"Well, Kara asked me how to measure light. And Chelsea wanted to know about blood. Which explains the mess." He laughed lightly. Wilson stopped and wheeled around.

"Chelsea Browner?" he said incredulously and a bit too loudly; the nurses were staring.

Rurigawa shrugged. "Yeah."

Wilson resumed walking. "She never talks."

Rurigawa shrugged. "Struck me as the quiet type."

"After we finish our sentimental discussions about terminal pre-adolescents, can we get to the cafeteria? Today?" House requested acidly.

"I have to go wash my hands. Nice meeting you, Chase." Rurigawa made a sharp left to the bathroom.

"I have to get back to Surgery. House. Wilson." Chase nodded curtly and left.

"So. It's just you and me now. Have anything in mind?" House turned to him and jabbed the elevator button.

Wilson regarded him carefully. "I was thinking of getting something to eat."

"What were you thinking of eating?" House leered. "Bread sticks? Sausages?"

"Lollipops," Wilson replied. "I was thinking of sucking on a lollipop."

"Very good, Wilson!" House exclaimed as they got into the elevator. "Your double entendres could be a little more subtle, but you're getting there." There was a moment of comfortable silence. Wilson didn't know why he did it, but he placed a light hand over the hand House was resting on his cane. "Stop petting me, I'm not a dog," House said irascibly. There was a moment of extremely uncomfortable silence, during which Wilson prayed that Rurigawa or someone would come and rescue him. "Sorry," he sighed. House rolled his eyes and hmmphed.

"What would it take for you to have sex in an elevator, Wilson?" House asked.

Wilson was caught gaping for a moment, then composed himself. "What kind of sex?"

"See, this I like. Submissive , accommodating Wilson. So sexy."

Wilson quirked a smile, despite himself. "Oh, you'll live. Besides, isn't that all the time?"

"No, most of the time it's super-hero Wilson. Or Saint Wilson."

"See you later, House."

Wilson wasn't quite sure, but he _thought _that _maybe_ House had just bitten his neck. Well, not _bitten_, exactly, more like sharply nipped.

"I have to go torture Cuddy's sex slave," House announced loudly, as the elevator doors opened. "I'll see you later." Wilson rolled his eyes and continued on to the oncology ward.

GHXJW

"You didn't tell me you were screwing the wallaby." House said as he sat across from Rurigawa, stealing a fry smoothly in the process.

"I'm not," Rurigawa replied absently.

"Ah. Forgive my inaccurate terminology. You didn't tell me the wallaby was screwing you."

Rurigawa rolled his eyes. "I am not having sexual liaisons with Dr. Chase. I just met him today!"

House stole a French fry. "Do you think there will be future sexual liaisons?" Rurigawa poked at his salad and mumbled. "Sorry? Pardon me?" House shouted.

"I said, 'I don't know'," Rurigawa growled.

House sat back and looked at him knowingly. "So you're considering it?"

Rurigawa glared balefully. "What is your point, anyways?" he inquired, sounding breezily affronted.

"You know why I'm surprised?" House asked, ignoring Rurigawa's question. "Why you didn't refute the point where I _hinted_ that you were gay."

"There would be no point in arguing," Rurigawa said. "You'd still be convinced you're right. And then it would turn into a competition. And then I'd have to go out with a girl just to disprove your suspicions. And I wouldn't want to use someone like that, as I, unlike you, know the definition of the word 'compassion.'"

"You're more like Foreman than I thought," House muttered musingly.

"Who?"

House brushed off the question again. "Are you a masochist?" he inquired plainly.

"Sort of. Not really. Why?" Rurigawa returned.

"Because you basically consented to clinic duty this morning. Nobody in their right mind would do that."

"There's your answer. I'm crazy." Rurigawa answered shortly.

"Why did you take the blame?" House asked, peering at Rurigawa as though he were a specimen under a microscope. In a sense, he was.

Rurigawa sighed. Then he looked at House sharply. "What are the repercussions if I lie?"

House snapped up another two fries. "More clinic duty. And I fire Trent and Parker."

"And if I tell the truth?"

"No extra clinic duty. But I still fire Trent and Parker."

Rurigawa sipped his water, took a thoughtful bite of the sandwich he had progressed to from the salad. "Then I won't say anything. We can still be talking about sex with Dr. Chase."

House stared at him with a bright blue gaze that most people found unnerving. "If you tell the truth, you get extra clinic duty but I won't fire Trent or Parker."

Rurigawa eyed him over the rim of his glass. "Really?"

"No." House popped a Vicodin. The pain was crawling in a way that reminded him of a frenzied mass of ants on a carcass. "I just lied," he added in an explanatory manner.

Rurigawa peered at him again; leaning in toward House, attempting to discern what exactly was going on in his brain, without much luck. "Are you lying that you lied?"

"No."

"But you could still be lying, and not saying so!"

House shot him an exasperated stare, rolled his eyes, and took another fry. "We've solved four cases successfully without any major screw-ups except for this one woman who died."

"It sounds great when you put it like that," Rurigawa said ruefully. "But it's the woman who died that counts the most."

"Then why won't you tell me what really happened?" House snarled, chewing his stolen fries viscously.

Rurigawa looked at him hopelessly. "You will fire them. And me, probably." House watched him, not saying a word nor giving any hint to his thoughts through his facial expression. "I don't know…they were kissing. They flirting, then they started kissing, and then the woman had a heart attack."

"So you knew," House bleated. "And you had blackmail on Parker and Trent, which is why they obeyed your every whim."

Rurigawa sighed and shrugged. "I'm sorry. I just…"

"Are they having sex?" House yelled. Every person within a twenty-foot radius whipped around to stare at them. Rurigawa stared at him, dumbstruck. "Remind them to use a condom, we don't want any Parker-ettes." He stood up and limped away, throwing random menacing glares left and right. The whole lunchroom was trained on Rurigawa, so he had no option but to keep eating, nearly choking on the defiant bite of ham and cheese he had taken.

GHXJW

They were kissing. They were making out and kissing and their romance had gotten in the way and a woman had died, actually died, because they couldn't stop themselves. It was outrageous. It made him want to take more pills than usual. It _pained _him. God, the idiocy of some people! How arrogant were they, to think that they had such a stable position on his team that they could have a prelude to sex at work? Despite his promise to Rurigawa, House really, really, really wanted to fire those two idiots, he really did.

And that was another thing that was bothering him. He didn't know how one was connected to the other, but ever since that first kiss with Wilson under the raw kitchen lights, House had started doing stupid things like_smiling _and _keeping promises_. It was ridiculous, and vaguely contradictory. With Wilson, House had always thought romantic relationships were about deception. He had a nearly permanent butt mark on his couch to prove that, and those three horrendous ties that most certainly were not his. Hang on. What the hell? Since when was he involved in a 'romantic' relationship with Wilson? Since when had he _ever_ been involved in a 'romantic' relationship?

_Stacy,_ a corner of his mid whispered in a singsong voice, but he ignored it. That was another thing. He had stopped listening to his mind, and started doing (gasp) the _right thing._ If House really wanted to maintain his reputation, he would have to do something about Wilson. Always one for immediate action, he stepped out of his office, and after a quick glance down the hallway, resoundingly whacked Wilson's door with his cane. Both cane and door quivered.

Silence. House swung back his cane for another bang, and nearly hit Wilson over the head, stopping a fraction of an inch from his eye. "House?" Wilson said questioningly.

House put his cane down, stared into Wilson's eyes for a long time. They stood there, immobile in Wilson's doorway. "Honey," House finally intoned sardonically, "we have to talk."

"Already? We haven't even had sex yet," Wilson commented.

"Yet?" House said skeptically. Wilson flushed.

"Well, you know, I mean, just…I mean, it's like…" Wilson babbled. "Because I just…I wasn't really…just kidding?" he offered feebly.

House smiled fiendishly, then poked his head out the door. "Wilson has a cripple fetish!" he practically screamed, then snapped the door shut behind him. "Although, I must admit, certain cripples really have it going for them."

Wilson laughed nervously. "So. We need to talk?"

House sprawled himself, as was customary, all over Wilson's couch. "Yes."

"What about?" Wilson lowered himself into his desk chair slowly. It was most unlike House to openly want to talk about something. This was strange. This was out of the ordinary. Wilson fully intended to tease House about it later, unless it was One Of Those Things They Didn't Talk About, i.e. pills and shots.

"Let's talk about something else," House said irritably.

Wilson tried not to smile. "You know," he began. "The funny thing about changing the subject is, usually you have a subject you're trying to divert attention from…" House glared at him, and Wilson shut up.

House waved vaguely in midair. "No, well, I'm not quite sure what it is I need to talk about, but keep talking and I'm sure we'll get to it."

Wilson pursed his lips and peered at House. "You aren't drunk, are you?" he asked.

"No!" House barked. "Talk, damn it."

"Okay," Wilson said, absurdly nervous, as though he were giving a speech. "Today, I diagnosed two people, one with lung cancer and the other with ovarian cancer. Both were women. They both cried, even though I told them it would be all right." He took a deep breath. "I guess that's the way it is, though – "

"Okay, okay," House said irritably. "Enough. What I wanted to talk about was…" he stood up, walked over to the desk, leaned over and kissed Wilson. "That. That's what I wanted to talk about."

Wilson sighed. He had known this was coming. "All right. What about it?"

"It's really all your fault," House said. "Because you're the one that started it."

Wilson glared at him. "No," he retorted, "if I remember correctly, _you're_ the one who grabbed my wrist and kissed me in your kitchen. And why can't you say the word kiss?"

"I can say the word kiss," House huffed.

"But not in context."

"That's beside the point!" House said loudly. "It's your fault that everything's going wrong, and I intend to punish you for it."

"Punish me how?" Wilson asked, surprising even himself with his sultriness.

House groaned and put his head between his knees. He sat like that for a long time. Then he stood up. "I have a case," he said absently, and limped out.

Wilson waited maybe ten seconds before going after House. "House, you walked into my office for a reason. Just tell me what it is, and I can stop worrying about it."

"I have a case," House said gruffly.

"Can't Rurigawa take care of it for ten minutes?" Wilson asked, not being able to help sounding a little whiny.

"He's not Trent and Parker's superior," House replied. "I am."

"Then why do act like he is?" Wilson demanded, then sighed. "I...I guess you're right. Patients first. So, I'll see you later?"

House scowled. "You're supposed to be good at reading people. When I say, 'I have a case', I'm being purposefully evasive. You should have picked up on that, but you didn't…"

Wilson sighed again. "Frankly, I'm lost when it comes to you, House."

"Oh, stop it," he said, putting a coy hand over his mouth.

Wilson rolled his eyes and shifted from foot to foot. "I just don't have the energy to deal with this right now. I'm going back to my office."

He was halfway toward the door when House asked slyly: "What _do_ you have energy for?"

"Not now, House!"

"Come here." Wilson looked back and found himself transfixed by House's eyes. "You know you want to."

Wilson shuffled over, a little involuntarily. It was almost magnetic, that gaze. It just drew him in, every single time. "House…"

He was jerked down abruptly by the tie, and was forced to stop himself from falling by putting his hands on the armrests of the chair.

Rurigawa picked this moment to walk in through the door. He paused for a moment, and then decided to ignore the strange positions they were in. Wilson desperately wished House would let go of his tie. "Clean for toxins and heavy metals," Rurigawa said brusquely.

"Do an MRI," House said. "And check out the house for radiation."

Rurigawa jotted it down on his file, then added, "Shouldn't we also check for carbon monoxide? And do a biopsy anyway?"

House nodded curtly. "If it's cancer he has six months, tops."

"Lung biopsies almost always come back clean. Do it under the arm," Wilson advised, wincing when he realized he was instructing Rurigawa whilst tethered to House like a dog on a leash.

This peculiarity was not lost on Rurigawa who smiled. "Thanks, Dr. Wilson." He left.

Wilson looked back down at House. "If you had let go of my tie…"

"You know you like it," House growled, and latched onto his mouth with the vigor of a long-starved leech. It was a fitting description, Wilson thought, whilst moving his lips and tongue in response to House's probing movements. It felt nice; as it had the other six or so times they had done it, but this time Wilson felt as thought he was being devoured, as opposed to explored.

And then there was the fact that this was House's office. That if Cuddy walked in at this very moment, she would be very mad, not to mention very freaked out, and they would both probably both be very fired. Wait. For that matter, if anybody merely walked _by_--

"House, glass walls!" he panted, breaking away. House still had him by the tie, and his hands-on-hips posture wasn't nearly as threatening when he was still bent over House and very close to falling over.

"What's life without a little risk?" House answered, smirking.

"House, if anyone walked by in the past thirty seconds…!" Wilson let the sentiment go unfinished. Maybe they were progressive in New Jersey, but not everyone was the state. And everyone hated House. They would be dying just to bring him down on anything.

"…They'll all be masturbating in the closest vacant toilet stall," House finished for him, blithely ignoring all the dangers Wilson had implied.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House…"

"Oh, I'm sorry. We can call it something else if you like," House amended. "How about, 'Special time with my special place'?"

Wilson ignored that last statement and sat on the desk, House having finally released his tie. "We have to talk about this," he declared.

"People masturbating in bathrooms? Or euphemisms for masturbation?"

"Neither! We have to talk about something a little more important," Wilson said, emphasizing the last word.

House's eyes widened. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

Wilson pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at House. "House! Of course not."

"Then what?" House snorted.

Wilson bit his lip, wondering how to phrase his sentiments. "I don't know what to make of this, House. What are we doing?"

"Nothing exciting," House retorted. "You stopped."

"No, I mean, what is this…_thing_ we have now? Are we still just friends, or…?" Wilson shrugged and stared rather helplessly at House, who was eyeing him calculatingly.

House breathed deeply and broke the eye contact, preferring to glare at the floor. "When an man and a woman kiss, it usually means they're going out. When they kiss repeatedly, it usually means they're in an established relationship. I'm not a woman, at least last time I checked. Are you, Wilson?" House looked back up.

Wilson frowned. "No."

"That took longer than it should've," House observed. "So you're not a woman. I guess this means we don't have an established relationship." He swiveled his chair around to face the window.

"But we do, House," Wilson countered. "We've known each other, been friends for about ten years, remember?"

House looked at the clock on the wall. "About."

"Wouldn't you say that's pretty much established as they go?" Wilson pressed, looking at the back of House's neck.

"Sorry, I should've said a _romantic_ relationship," House drawled.

Wilson slid off the desk, still confused. "But we have an established relationship, right?"

"Nine years," House said loudly, swiveling back around to face Wilson and fixing him with a penetrating stare. "Nine years, seven months, forty-four weeks, five days, thirteen hours, seventeen minutes and thirty-eight seconds." He lifted his eyes to Wilson's. "What do you think?"

"You remember?" Wilson whispered, dry-mouthed. Not even he remembered in such meticulous detail! He remembered the incident itself, of course, but not to the degree of knowing the number of seconds.

"Of course. I remember the exact time and place where I've met all my _friend_, as Cuddy so sweetly put it," House intoned sarcastically. "Back two steps and a little to the left, by the way."

Wilson took the steps, careful not to trip. "So, this is where we first met?"

House squinted. "Pretty much."

Wilson smiled. "I remember it. Not as well as you, of course." House said nothing, so he continued. "I remember my first thought after meeting you was – "

"We're not a couple," House interrupted. "So cut the sentimental crap."

Wilson stood, mouth open, for a good ten seconds. "Right. Sorry I bothered you." He went back to his office.

GHXJW

"Wilson, I'm leaving early. Let yourself in." House barely glanced at Wilson, and didn't give him any time to respond, limping down the corridor as fast as his leg would permit. Wilson found himself bidding the door goodbye. He let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, and tried to focus on his paperwork. House was probably just trying to avoid Cuddy and her clinic, but Wilson couldn't shake off the feeling that it had quite a bit to do with him as well. That strange talk they had attempted to have only strained things between them, further clouding the already confusing air.

Truth was, House was a bit of a coward. He liked to run (limp, Wilson thought ruefully) from problems he couldn't solve, do his thinking, then go back and solve them later, when other people had forgotten about the initial problem. It's what made him such a good doctor, and such a bad socialite. After smiling momentarily at the image of House trying to make small talk ('the weather sucks. And so does your dress'), Wilson decided not to confront House about it. House had started it, he could finish it.

Comfortable with his decidedly non-confrontational decision, Wilson leaned back and stretched out his neck, taking a moment to refocus. He glanced at some lab tests that had come back, and all off his contentment dissipated to be replaced by a firm, unforgiving incredulity, tension, and an overwhelming need to scream.

He hated when this happened. He hated when he had told someone they were getting better, and then suddenly they plunge again. He hated telling them that actually, they weren't better. He hated terminal patients. He hated terminal children.

So right now, he really hated Kara Whites.

Wilson sat back down, unaware that he had leapt to his feet, and put his face in his hands. It was always the ones who least deserved it. He felt rather disgusting, being fully alive, old, and not terminal, ineffectually sitting there. God, he needed to _do_something. Getting drunk wasn't an option; he didn't know what it might make him do, especially when he got back home. (Funny how House's apartment was now home).

And then there was the problem with House as well. That really needed clearing up; he couldn't focus on anything! If he didn't decide something with House soon, he would end up messing up very badly on some patient's meds or diagnosis.

Leaving Kara's tests on his desk, he took his coat off the hook and ran down the hallway, hurriedly telling Cuddy, "I'll be back" before going out into the cold.

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	8. Damn, Damn December

Warnings: Mild swearing and little naughty bits. I don't own Vicodin or House.

Damn December, House thought, stretching his legs out on the couch. Goddamn December. All that ridiculous and vapid Christmas cheer and excuses for people to be even stupider and spend even more money. All those dinky little lights that were bound to give someone a seizure someday, and the enormous trees that were depriving a small nation of oxygen. As though people didn't waste enough during the year, they had to have Christmas to have one big waste-off to bring in the New Year. Maybe he'd spend Christmas in the ER (not as a patient this time, hopefully).

He heard the sound of the door clicking shut behind him. So Wilson was home. House decided to ignore him until he thought of something to say that was appropriately distant yet receptive.

"I brought Chinese," Wilson intoned in the background. House said nothing, brain still working furiously. How could he tell Wilson that yes, he wanted him (when he had come to that conclusion he didn't know) but no, he was not going to marry him? He cleared his throat and turned around.

Oh, God. Wilson was standing there awkwardly, hair blown about by the wind (damn December), wearing his coat and shirt and tie and it was worse than if Wilson had been standing there naked. (Which, House had to admit, was also a rather appealing thought). But this was terrible. It was normal, everyday Wilson, wearing his little apologetic, sorry-I'm-so-nice smile and holding food. House nodded sharply once, then turned back around to worry about his sudden urge to pull Wilson down on the couch by his tie and screw him senseless. There was a heavy silence during which Wilson stood and waited for House to talk and House sat on the couch and waited for Wilson to leave.

There was a rustling sound as Wilson put the Chinese down, but it was not followed by the customary scraping of a chair against the hardwood floor. House frowned, wondering at Wilson's decision to stay standing. The man really was a masochist. Who would choose to stay standing, when there were perfectly good chairs right there? Then again, he didn't have a bum leg – House guessed (sarcastically, to himself) that made life a lot easier. Now Wilson was walking, swiftly, maybe toward the bedroom, to change, where House could "accidentally" see him without -

His musings were cut short by cold, wet lips nipping his earlobe. He shivered under the intimate touch. Damn December. "Wil – " he started to protest but was swiftly cut off by Wilson sliding onto his lap.

"Don't talk," Wilson murmured. All that really mattered was the contrast between the surprising softness of House's lips and the scratchy roughness of his jaw, the alien warmth of House's hands as they slipped inside his coat and pressed their weight against Wilson's hips. House's mouth began to roam to the line of his throat, and his eyes snapped open to stare straight ahead at the still-open door. "House…" The hands were under his shirt now, dragging lightly over the skin, leaving shivers in their wake. "House, door," he rasped.

"Mmm," House acknowledged, but seemed far more interested in Wilson's jaw and collarbone.

"House," Wilson warned. Pulling away and stumbling toward the door, House tried to collect himself. All he wanted was sex, right? So why was he worried that Wilson might be doing this too early or something? That he wasn't quite ready for it; that he might be doing it to please or placate House? If it were anyone else, House wouldn't mind. (Well, except for Foreman. Doing anything remotely sexual with that bastard was more than a little off-putting. And Taub definitely wasn't high on his list either).

He turned around after making a great show of slamming the door shut and locking it. Wilson was still kneeling on the couch, and House's heart nearly broke because of all the different directions that image was taking him. Just _looking_ at Wilson made shivers of arousal flutter down straight from his stomach into his groin, perversely glorious. Then again, it was _Wilson_. Like, married three times Wilson. Like, oncologist Wilson. Like…damn, this was wrong.

House stopped walking, in an attempt to stave off what he deemed was either a very drunk or very high Wilson (he brushed aside the fact that Wilson looked and smelled neither like alcohol nor drugs), but his plan was foiled by Wilson _pouncing_ on him with warm lips but cold hands, and every nerve in his body was feeling all tingly again. It was an electric feeling that zipped along like a razor just brushing his skin; the same sense of danger and yet the absolute fascination and inability to stop.

"Bed. Now," House commanded. Without even looking back, Wilson pulled him along by the hand into the bedroom, flinging the door shut, then lying on the bed. "You're wearing far too many clothes," House commented, sliding on top of Wilson carefully.

Wilson raised his mouth to the shell of House's ear. "Undress me," he panted. If there had ever been any doubt that House wanted to screw him, that hot little breath melted it. House mindlessly ripped off the tie and dress shirt, pulled off the pants and boxers in one fluid motion, and had Wilson naked before he had time to register what he was doing. His mouth was halfway down Wilson's body, drawing lovely little whimper-moan type things from him, when he realized what was happening.

House drew in a breath shaky with want. "Are you sure you want this?"

"House, you stopped," Wilson whined.

House closed his eyes against the image of Wilson undressed and underneath him. He was reckless and careless, but he wasn't stupid. "Do you want this?" he asked loudly, taking his hands from Wilson's hips.

Wilson sat up and placed a gentle hand on House's face. "Yes," he whispered against House's lips. "Yes." The wide blue eyes opened to meet Wilson's steady gaze and wide smile. "Now, what about _your_ clothes?"

House let himself go.

GHXJW

Wilson hobbled into the bathroom, avoiding his reflection. He didn't want to know what he looked like, whether there were marks or any signs of his defilement. The body that had just been the source of undivided attention ultimately remained that way, only because he was focusing all of his attention onto forgetting what had happened. Treading lightly on the cold tiles, and hating himself for caring about physical comfort, Wilson closed the door behind him and closed his eyes. The harsh lights still penetrated beneath his eyelids, and he scrunched them closed more tightly, sending uncomfortable prickles into his temples.

He wet a washcloth and cleaned himself off, trying not to think of anything, because if he did, he would cry. If he even thought about the sex (could it even be called that?) he had just had, he would break down on the floor and cry.

It wasn't so much the physical pain as the emotional pain – the overall feeling of having been used and discarded, the feeling that House really didn't care. It had started out all right: both giving and taking, and House asking if he was all right with it all. It was downhill from there. It turned from softness and caresses into House rutting into him without abandon, each thrust a complete torture for Wilson and House just keeping going…now, each step Wilson took was lanced with a numbed sort of agony, reflecting rather aptly the ache in his chest. Wilson clenched his jaw against the memory, but he could still feel House burning into him, too hard, too fast. The recollection was almost more vivid than the event itself had been; now he could examine and exaggerate every ragged plea that had escaped his lips, every involuntary clenching of his hands on House's back, everything he had done short of screaming, "Stop!" yet House had ignored.

Perhaps the worst part was, he couldn't even blame House. Wilson was the one who had started this, licking House's ear and kissing him. He was the one who had told House, yes, he was ready and wanted this. He didn't know what he had been expecting from House. In fact, in retrospect, any hope of satisfactory sex was really quite stupid. He shouldn't have expected House to have any experience with…this sort of thing. He should have known that, just as with everything else, House would ruthlessly take and take and then leave. He had known all this, yet he had hoped for something more.

Wilson had really brought hell onto himself.

With House, it was never easy. It was always raw and tiring and frustrating and never just so. So why did he think a happily-ever-after was possible? What the hell had he been thinking? There was the answer. He hadn't been thinking. Frankly, he sort of deserved this, in a twisted way. Guilt and broken hope always twists things.

With a sigh, he pulled on a t-shirt and boxers and went to bed, careful to avoid looking at House's sleeping figure. He carefully pulled the covers onto himself, closing his eyes against the dark pain and the vague empty feeling.

GHXJW

Unbeknownst to him, House was actually awake. He had turned onto his stomach and evened out his breath right after he had ridden out the last shocks of his orgasm, the picture of a totally sated man. Wilson had padded quietly into the bathroom, emerging dressed a few minutes later. He had slipped into bed and fallen asleep at once, without even a glace in House's direction.

This only added to the feeling that he had missed something, that something was wrong. Maybe Wilson had wanted to top? Well, he hadn't fought for it, although he had been quite assertive about other things, House thought with a smirk. But it quickly reverted to a frown. What was wrong? He shifted slightly to look at Wilson's back, staring at the sleeping figure for long moments.

Then suddenly, it hit him with a deep sinking feeling in his gut that he tried to let out in a long sigh. That's what was wrong, that's why he didn't feel sated and complete. There was the missing piece in the puzzle of the sex he had just had.

_Wilson hadn't come._

House bit back an annoyed groan and buried his face in his pillow. What was Wilson doing to him? He wouldn't usually feel this guilty.

Then again, he didn't usually have sex with his best friend.

Spelling it out like that in his mind made it even worse. This sucked beyond belief. He really wanted to bury himself in a hole. He supposed after that first thrust in, the heat and intimacy and intensity was just so overwhelming, he completely lost any modicum of decency. Well, as much decency as could be had during sex.

He wasn't even sure it could be called sex. But then, what should it be called? Rape? Technically, Wilson had completely and utterly allowed this to happen. He had said 'yes', for God's sake. He had _asked_ House to undress him. If that wasn't consent, nothing was, except maybe him fucking House himself. It wasn't quite rape, but it wasn't quite sex. This symbolized something deeper that House had vowed to change after the Tritter incident; he wanted to stop screwing Wilson over, wanted maybe to give a little bit. Even if all he wanted was sex, he could have at least made it good sex, for both of them. He'd failed. House clenched the pillow tighter to his head. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Cuddy's told him he was a jerk.

Maybe he'd call in sick tomorrow to avoid Wilson. No, that wouldn't work; Wilson was sleeping next to him. Maybe he'd wake up obscenely early. No, that was probably Wilson's tactic. He decided he'd just act as usual, minus talking to Wilson. He didn't think he could face him just yet.

REMEMBER, SPORADIC UPDATES!

HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEARS!


	9. Shapes and Houger Gorsey

A/N: Again, I don't own House or Vicodin.

GHXJW

Kara Whites was getting progressively worse, and Wilson didn't have a clue why. She was taking her medicine, she was getting enough fluids, and her blood test came back without any abnormalities, at least for a cancer patient. She could still talk, and she didn't seem to be in too much pain. Everything was as it should be, except that she wasn't getting better. Such a sudden decline was strange, and probably meant the cancer was back, stronger than ever.

He wished he could ask House for his advice.

A nurse entered the office without knocking. "Dr. Wilson, Emily Whites wants to see you," she said briskly.

"Thanks, Betty," he said, and dropped his face into his hands.

She smiled sympathetically. "Should I tell her you're busy?"

"No. No, I'll see her. Thanks." He smiled back at her until she left, then let the façade drop and sighed. Picking up his lab coat, he dragged himself out of his office.

He stepped into Kara's room. "Mrs. White," he said, smiling perfunctorily.

"Dr. Wilson!" The woman's blonde hair was of the bottled variety, streaking dirtily from the crown. Her nondescript brown eyes were almost not visible through the thick black lines drawn on her eyelids. A heavy layer of makeup was caked on her sallow face, contrasting greatly with her thin neck and wrists.

He drew up a chair for her, then himself. She sat self-importantly. "So. What's the diagnosis?" she inquired, with an air of omniscience that made him wince and feel embarrassed for her. He let the misuse of medical term pass, and went straight for the main point.

"Mrs. White, I'm afraid Kara's condition is worsening," he said quietly. "She's still taking her pills and everything, but…" Her pinkly painted mouth made a perfect 'o'. Wilson couldn't help but think it looked like a dog's ass. With a cough, he brushed aside that_strange_ thought. "I think we'll have to put her back on an IV drip. Maybe since she's eating food again, it's taking longer for the medicine to work. Hopefully it'll catalyze the reaction and we'll see some improvement."

"So you don't know what's making her sicker?" Mrs. White asked, a strange smile on her face.

Wilson frowned. "No. I would hold a consult, but the other doctor is…busy."

"Who's the other doctor?" Mrs. White demanded.

"Dr. Gregory House." Wilson said it quickly, so as to avoid the syllables lingering on his tongue just like that faintly bitter taste. Despite having eaten breakfast, the taste was still there, just behind his teeth. "He's a diagnostician, he'll probably be able to tell what's wrong with Kara." He tried to smile encouragingly but he knew it looked like a haggard grimace. "It'll be all right, Mrs. White."

Her smile came off as more of a jeering simper. "I'm sure it will, Dr. Wilson."

He slid open the door. "I'll see about Dr. House."

Kara cracked open an eyelid, casing both adults to be at her beside in an instant. "Is Dr. House the one who came in here before?" Kara asked brokenly, wheezing slightly.

"Yes," Wilson replied.

"The one with the hurt leg?" Kara coughed. "You never told me what happened."

Wilson pressed his lips together. "Maybe I'll get Dr. House to tell you. He's better at…telling stories."

"He seemed nice." Kara's eyes closed again. Wilson shared a swift look with Mrs. White, and then left, feeling the strange urge to brush his teeth.

GHXJW

It was unnaturally quiet in the diagnostics department. Trent and Parker were studiously not looking at each other, Rurigawa was idly doodling on a file, and House was throwing a tennis ball at the glass wall. Any passer-by would have thought that perhaps they were bored doctors waiting for an extensive blood test or scan, or perhaps that they had no case. (In which case Cuddy would have wanted them at the clinic). In reality, they were brooding over Wilson.

At least, House was, and as a result his team was doing nothing. He was really wallowing in self-hatred, letting his guilt pervade every nook and cranny of his body until it was all he could do to not shrivel up and die. _Wilson hadn't come_. He was a terrible, terrible partner.

"It could be genetic," Rurigawa suggested out of the blue. Trent and Parker looked at him severely, willing him to shut up. He shrugged and went back to drawing indolent little loops all over the patient history. Further silence. Bounce, catch, throw. Bounce, catch throw. Bounce, catch, throw. Bounce, catch, throw. Bounce, catch, throw.

"We should do an EKG to confirm. He has conduction abnormalities," Trent attempted.

"If you leave this room, you're fired," House yelled.

"House, we have to do _something_," Parker said loudly.

House swiveled and fixed her with a bright blue eye. "Go make out with your boyfriend, or _something_, then. It doesn't matter, no one in the immediate vicinity is dying, or anything."

Except for him. He thought he might die over the fact that whatever he and Wilson had, friendship or maybe a little love, was now gone. He had screwed up, and he didn't know whether Wilson would give him a second chance. Wilson, who had been willing to go to jail for him, who had posted bail for him, who had stood by him against Cuddy for all these years…throw sex into the mix and suddenly everything got so much more goddamn complicated. It was invariably so, even with Stacy…

House popped a Vicodin or two, bounced, caught, and threw.

GHXJW

"Dr. Wilson?" Rurigawa said quietly, tapping on the door.

"Come in," Wilson called from within.

Rurigawa slipped in, closing the door behind him carefully. "What did he do this time?" he hissed.

"What?" Wilson asked, totally bewildered.

"What did House do this time? Why are you mad at him?" Rurigawa clarified impatiently.

"Nothing. I mean, I'm not angry." It was true. He wasn't angry with House; he was angry with himself for being such an idiot.

"Everybody lies," Rurigawa groaned. "Then why is he acting like this?"

"Like what?"

"We're literally not doing _anything_ next door. We are sitting around doing absolutely nothing, because House is…brooding." Rurigawa began to pace. "He won't _let_ us do anything."

Wilson frowned. House was brooding? House wasn't supposed to be brooding. House wasn't _allowed_ to be brooding. It had been fine for him, at least. Unless…but no, it was unthinkable that House would feel guilty over a little thing like sex. Maybe he was brooding over the fact that now his notion of his own sexuality was messed up. (Wilson had given up on that a long time ago: just thinking about it gave him a headache). "Any idea why?"

"I thought it might be because you two had a fight or something," Rurigawa reasoned. "So I came here to ask you to please, please, please forgive him so that nobody dies unnecessarily."

"I don't think House would let someone die," Wilson said.

"Yesterday you two were just fine!" Rurigawa said it a little abashedly, the memory clearly replaying vividly in his mind. " I mean…look. House is pissed and he's taking it out on us. On the patient."

Wilson sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "Okay. And you want me to do…what?"

"Talk to him, or something!" Rurigawa noticed his voice was getting too loud, and checked himself, dropping the tone to just above a whisper. "I know you two are, or were…closer…then most people thought. And I know that just makes a fight worse. But can you please…?"

"That's just the thing," Wilson said, suddenly irritable. "I don't even know what we were, whether we were closer, or anything."

Rurigawa looked at him in an appraising way that was uncomfortably similar to House. Then he leaned forward and softly touched his lips against Wilson's, gradually increasing pressure and sweeping his tongue across Wilson's lower lip and the corners of his mouth, teeth grazing lightly.

All the while, Wilson stared in the corner of his office ceiling hoping to God there were no surveillance cameras in the office. This was strange.

Finally, Rurigawa broke away and straightened. "There," he said triumphantly.

Wilson, totally thrown, gaped momentarily. "What?"

"Didn't that feel wrong at all?" Rurigawa probed. "Like my mouth was the wrong shape or anything?"

Wilson peered at him pressed his lips together, analyzing the kiss. Where House was aggressive, Rurigawa was passive, asking him for permission. Where House took, Rurigawa gave. It was weird, almost like Wilson could have been in control had he not been staring at the ceiling in shock.

"No," he replied slowly. "Not really. It was very…different, but not bad."

Rurigawa threw his head back and flopped onto the couch in exasperation. "You're supposed to say, 'You're right, Alex, House is my soul mate', go next door, kiss him senseless and forgive him forever and ever amen."

"You taste like him," Wilson noticed suddenly, taking his pen in hand. "You taste a lot like him. You didn't kiss him, did you?"

"Aha!" Rurigawa exclaimed gleefully, sitting up straighter. "You're worried. You think that maybe someone else has possessed that mouth, has had what you've had…"

Wilson shot him a very long, very burning stare that had a lot of daggers in it, a stare he usually reserved for House at his most ridiculous.

Rurigawa relented. "Unfortunately, no, I didn't."

"Unfortunately? Why do you taste like him?" Wilson wondered, not accusatorially.

Rurigawa shrugged. "We drink the same coffee. And maybe it's the Vicodin."

"You take Vicodin?" Wilson screeched incredulously.

"Just one," Rurigawa said sheepishly.

Wilson shook his head. "Why?"

"I was in a little pain." Rurigawa was suddenly very interested in the buttons on his lab coat.

"Why?" Wilson smiled a little.

"I spent a lot of the night on the floor," Rurigawa said with as much dignity as such a confession would allow.

"On your back?"

Rurigawa cleared his throat. "If you two don't forgive each other soon, I don't know what we're going to do. So can you please, please, please do something? I only escaped because I said I had to go to the bathroom."

"Everybody lies?" Wilson asked artfully.

"Pretty much," Rurigawa replied. "It kind of sucks. If you really want to know the truth, it all comes down to me being very, very bored. He won't even let us do a follow-up EKG, even though the echo-cardio showed conduction abnormalities."

Wilson breathed deeply and looked again at the ceiling. He really didn't want to talk to House at all. In fact if he could help it he didn't want to even see House, although the fact that _he_was brooding was curious.

Rurigawa looked at him almost hopelessly, dark eyes wide and pleading. "The patient is so close to death, Wilson. Fourteen, and has already suffered from pleural effusion, rectal bleeding…he's obviously not metabolizing properly, and House won't even let us do an EKG to confirm it. We can't do anything but broad-spectrum antibiotics, and they're doing absolutely _nothing_."

"I'll work on it, Rurigawa. Okay?" Wilson assured him, smiling genuinely. It felt strange after all the faux dimpling he had done for Emily Whites earlier.

"Work on it soon. I never thought I'd say this, but I kind of want to work." He stood up and walked toward the door, swinging it open. "Thanks. And - " he cleared his throat again, but met Wilson's eyes. "You're a good kisser."

Wilson shrugged ruefully. "Lot's of experience. I'm not proud of it."

Rurigawa grinned and left.

GHXJW

It wasn't often that Dr. Gregory House could be found in the ER. Even less often that he would voluntarily go talk to Dr. Robert Chase.

This was a day for strange things. "Chase," he said. "What's your floor made of?"

Chase frowned, turning on the tap. "Wood, why?"

"What are your ties made of?"

"Usually silk, why?" Chase reached for the soap.

"What's your bed made of?"

"Mahogany, why?" Chase rinsed and began to dry his hands. House turned and began to limp away. "Why do you need to know?" Chase called after him.

"Rurigawa stole my Vicodin," House answered. "I didn't know silk could bruise so badly, did you?"

Chase stared after him, open-mouthed as House limped back to the elevator.

GHXJW

t was nine o'clock and dark. Any curls of smoky twilight on the horizon had vanished to be replaced by a black line punctuated by the city lights. Trent and Parker had gone home already; House and Rurigawa were still sitting in House's office, Rurigawa having drawn up a chair and sat opposite House at the desk.

"House, why is Wilson mad at you?" Rurigawa asked plainly.

"I stole his Barbies," House confided sarcastically.

Rurigawa was not shaken, instead he leaned forward and enunciated clearly: "House, our patient is dying!"

"All right, all right. I slept with his little sister. She's seventeen," House amended bitingly.

"So he's jealous?" Rurigawa asked, playing along.

House looked back at him. "Now what would make you say that?"

"Maybe…the compromising position I found you two in yesterday?" Rurigawa suggested charily.

House rolled his eyes. "Don't be silly, I do that to all my bitches. He shouldn't be jealous. Speaking of bitches…how good is Chase?"

Rurigawa's eyes widened, then narrowed again craftily. "If I tell you, will you tell me what happened with Wilson?"

"Nope."

"Then I'm not going to tell you."

A moment's silence. "That good, huh?"

"You wish you knew," Rurigawa retorted, and House grabbed his wrist. Rurigawa winced: the area exposed was covered in lines that were slightly swollen and dark.

"So he's into bondage?" House asked archly. "At least it was silk."

Rurigawa tugged himself free. "That's not the point. The point is that you're refusing to work because of this argument or whatever you've had with Wilson. Fine, it's hard, but it's nothing no one's ever gone through before."

"Oh, Mommy, you're such a hard-ass," House drawled.

"So the patient's life is just a sacrifice to appease your guilt?" Rurigawa shot at him.

"Nope."

"Right. It's one of your plans to satisfy your vendetta against the world; take enough Vicodin to kill a suburban neighborhood, make sure enough fourteen year olds die," Rurigawa snapped.

"Yeah, you totally have it! Congratulations." House searched in his pocket for his Vicodin, Rurigawa having reminded him. "And I know you took one."

Rurigawa snorted. "What do you want me to do, throw it back up?"

"No, answer my question: how good is Chase?"

"You really want to know?" he asked slowly.

"No, I'm asking for fun." The Vicodin forced it's way down his throat, the familiar ache a little stronger today than usual. House refused it had anything to do with Wilson. Nothing to do with guilt, or pain. His throat didn't feel slightly tight and his stomach lead-filled every time he _thought_ of Wilson, never mind somebody mentioning his name.

Rurigawa was watching him carefully. Then he leaned forward and put his mouth on House's as though he were glass. The kiss was light and feathery, balmy and altogether too passive. House found himself wanting a voice whispering, "Undress me…" in his ear, wanting those hands running up and down his body, wanting Rurigawa to acquiesce to him finally after a long, hot battle of tongues and teeth and lips, not merely give to him.

It was good, but the gentleness was almost infuriating. They broke apart, and Rurigawa said: "And so?" His voice was too airy, too tenor, too…something. His eyes were too dark, his hair was too long, his hands were too pretty and _damn_, he wasn't Wilson.

Rurigawa sat back. "I hope that felt wrong. I hope that made you want to go home and tell Wilson you're sorry or that you forgive him."

House said nothing, so Rurigawa continued. "Since now someone else has kissed you and you've realized that all you really want for Christmas is Wilson, you're going to go home and tell him you two are okay."

"That answers the question of how good _you_ are, it doesn't tell me anything about Chase," House said finally.

"You idiot!" Rurigawa jumped to his feet, infuriated. "Either let us work, or stop drowning in your own self-pity. Not everything has to be about you!"

"This is," House mumbled.

"Well, then, fix it," Rurigawa said coldly. "I'm going to do the EKG."

"I'll fire you," House called after him.

"Go ahead," Rurigawa taunted sardonically, then swept into the hallway.

GHXJW

"I'm going to put a urine sample in your coffee," Rurigawa said loudly.

"But that would be juvenile," House objected.

"Your not talking to Wilson is juvenile," Rurigawa retorted.

"Can we get on with the case, please?" Parker interjected. Rurigawa wordlessly handed coffee to everyone and sat down.

House picked up the whiteboard marker. "So. What's the differential for pleural effusion, rectal bleeding, and conduction abnormalities?"

Trent frowned. "It could be an infection."

"Unlikely," Parker countered. "It's in the heart, the intestines and the lungs, there aren't very many infections that could cover the respiratory, cardiovascular and digestive systems."

"Parasites," said Rurigawa. "We haven't taken a fecal smear yet, though."

House nodded gravely. "Trent, go get a smear. Check for any abnormalities, take another blood test. Parker, go talk to the parents. I want you two back by ten." They left, shooting a backward glance at Rurigawa.

Rurigawa and House stood there in silence, until House sat down. "You know why I fired the Fellows before you?"

"You mean, the team you were putting together?" Rurigawa inquired helpfully.

"Trying to put together," House corrected, scowling at the memory. "I fired them because they were too busy sticking their noses in my private life, and stopped paying attention to being doctors. They spent more time trying to get into my head then getting into the patient's body."

Rurigawa sighed and nodded, the picture of remorse, but when he spoke, his voice was edged with anger: "I understand. But when I was trying to be a doctor, you stopped me and trapped me in your private life, not vice versa."

"You're right," House said, and Rurigawa started. "But I'm still going to fire you. When inadequately prepared submarines go to deep, they buckle under the external pressure. Bye-bye, German U-boat."

"Okay," Rurigawa said, voice remarkably level but hands shaking a little. "Okay. It's a reasonable argument. Should I go check out the school first?"

House nodded curtly. "And ask the students; where does this kid hang out?"

"Right. Okay. See you later, Mothership."

GHXJW

House found Rurigawa at four-thirty, talking to Chase. Their conversation was quiet, not exactly sober, but not an outrageous moment. It was a regular, connecting exchange. (Like he and Wilson used to have). They looked peaceful; as though nothing could disturb them.

So, of course, House had to try. "Good morning," he said loudly. They looked up, shocked, and House deemed their moment successfully shattered. "Daily Meeting of the Fired Ones?" he asked, whacking Rurigawa's legs, indicating he should move over. He shifted to accommodate his ex-boss.

Chase looked sharply at Rurigawa. "He fired you?"

"Didn't tell the boyfriend yet?" House snarked.

Rurigawa sighed. "Yes, he fired me."

Chase stared accusingly at House. "What's it with you? What's your problem?"

House squinted. "Too much work, too little sex."

"There's a reason for that," Rurigawa said loudly. Chase whipped his head back around.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked delightedly.

"See what I mean?" House said.

"Sorry." Rurigawa held out a file for him. "Here. I got some files from the nurse on all the students who have gone to the infirmary in the past eight months, checked out the gym, teachers' histories…I basically tested everything in the entire school. They recently had it renovated, so aside from a slight case of mold in the storage shed, there isn't anything."

"Does the kid go to the storage shed a lot?" House asked, ignoring Chase pointedly.

Rurigawa looked apologetically at Chase, then continued. "Once or twice a week to get the equipment for track and field. He does discus and the two-hundred meter."

"Unusual combination," House commented.

"Very," Rurigawa agreed. "But I don't think it's likely that he inhaled spores from the mold. The small patch is under the shed, by the basketballs. He never goes around there."

House frowned and "Does he have any friends who play basketball?"

Rurigawa flipped the pages in the file, without looking down. "No, they do track and ice hockey…his girlfriend plays volleyball."

"Girlfriend?" Chase asked incredulously. "Isn't he fourteen? It's a bit…young, isn't it?"

"Fifteen in March," House supplied. "He's perfectly mature, grandma. Are the volleyballs close to the basketballs?"

"Relatively," Rurigawa replied.

"And how close is his girlfriend to his balls?" House continued.

"I think that's overdoing it," Chase intoned warningly.

"You think it could be sexually transmitted?" Rurigawa said, standing up.

"Either that, or it's sexually transmitted," House replied sardonically.

"I'll do some tests." Rurigawa began to walk away, leaving the files on House's lap.

"Hey," House called after him. "Weren't you fired?"

Rurigawa shrugged. "That's what I thought." He kept walking.

GHXJW

Wilson bit into his sandwich. It was ham, cheese and tomato – for some reason today he had woken up without the energy to cook anything fancier. He had planned couscous, but, screw it, he just needed a sandwich. So here he was in his office, mindlessly filling out forms, trying to ignore the noise of House banging around next door, incessantly thumping a tennis ball against a hard surface.

Once Wilson noticed the noise, he couldn't get it out of his head. He hoped for an interval, maybe House would tire or he would get paged, but he didn't. He tried to focus on eating his sandwich, but it was too simple to require focus. Somehow, everything worked out neatly like that, to Wilson's great disadvantage.

He dug out his iPod and clicked shuffle. Usually he didn't much agree with the choices his iPod made and reverted to his trusty play lists, but anything was better than House's relentless ball bouncing. A song started playing too quietly, so he turned it up, but he still couldn't quite place the tune. The words and rough voice were clear against the strumming of an acoustic guitar :

_I don't really know_

_What to say_

_Or how to say it_

_It's quite strange, usually_

_The words flow so easily, but_

_You leave me undone_

_I'm coming apart and I can't stand it_

_Without you I'm gone_

_Broken and lifeless, shattered and helpless_

_You bind me, and now you've gone away_

_Leaving me to fall apart_

_Slowly_

_You're slicing me_

_Open; nerve by nerve_

_Vein by vein and_

_I can't take it_

_An apology is in order, but_

_I can't say it_

_Not because you're unworthy, but_

_Because I can't face it_

_What I've done won't wash away_

_You leave me undone…_

Wilson paused the song, frowning at the screen. "Houger Gorsey Wants to Say Sorry But Can't" by Boy Next Door. It was a ridiculous title, but a beautiful song. It was _exactly_ what he wanted House to say. But he knew House wouldn't say it. And he couldn't exactly leave a CD on House's desk titled, "Houger Gorsey Wants to Say Sorry But Can't."

He clicked 'repeat', and settled back into his paperwork.

GHXJW

Later, House spied Rurigawa and Chase walking together out of the building, talking in low voices with their shoulders touching, probably being repulsively romantic. House recognized exactly what they were going through; it was only the fourth day of their relationship, they were still learning about each other's habits and personalities, each other's wants and needs, each other's timetables, and were altogether too enthralled with each other to notice the other's shortcomings.

It was a stage House and Wilson had never gone through, had never needed to go through. They had known each other for a long, long time when they took it farther. House avoided words like "decided" or "forced" or "tried" because that defined what he and Wilson had, and it was something beyond definition.

Chase and Rurigawa were turning down the street, in the opposite direction that Chase usually went. Huh. So they were going to Rurigawa's place. Usually, House would have banged next door and called upon Wilson to help him hypothesize as to just what that meant and just how much of what Chase and Rurigawa were getting.

Usually. But he couldn't do that. He couldn't even look at Wilson's door, because that meant looking at Wilson's name. James Wilson, M.D.: James, what all his wives called him, and probably Mommy and Daddy too, Wilson, what everyone else called him, Cuddy, Cameron, Foreman, Rurigawa, Chase...it struck House that he wasn't quite so special in this respect. M.D., those two letters that represented so much yet so little. Medical Doctor. Well, awesome, dude. But those two letters only protect you from strangers, from people who would doubt your ability to work hard. They don't protect you from friends who take advantage of you, not only psychologically, but physically, sexually, as well –

House shoved the thought away, throwing the tennis ball with much more force than was necessary. The door gave slightly, a hairline crack appearing at the point of impact. "Damn," he said aloud. He'd have to get his patient on a crash cart and blame it on Trent, or something, the careless ass.

GHXJW

"So. How are things with House?" Chase asked, a bit awkwardly.

Rurigawa took a sip of water. "Fine. I'm not fired."

Chase smiled. "You're luckier than I was."

"Yeah. I guess. It's bittersweet," Rurigawa said with a small laugh.

"Why?"

"Well, I still have a job, but I have to deal with House everyday."

Chase shrugged. "I didn't mind."

"Actually, neither do I. It's my automatic response. I _should_ hate him, but I don't," Rurigawa explained. "I hate what he does to people, but him, personally? Not really…"

"Speaking of which, what were you talking about earlier, that it was House's own fault he wasn't getting any?" Chase asked.

"I'll ask if I can tell you," Rurigawa replied with a smile.

"What is this, high school?" Chase ridiculed.

"A bit," Rurigawa said. "A little."

"It's all a bit juvenile, really," Chase mused. "I mean, House always bitching at Cuddy, and gossip always flying around as to who's dating whom, and everything."

"Mm."

"It was good, by the way," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "Your rice thing."

Rurigawa laughed fully this time. "The 'rice thing' was a spur of the moment invention. I'm flattered."

"It was good," Chase reiterated, and swallowed the rest of his white wine. "I can think of something that may be a little better, though."

"Can you?" Rurigawa responded, demurely playing with his fork. "I can't seem to remember."

"I guess I'll have to remind you, then," Chase said coyly, moving closer.

"Before you do," Rurigawa said quickly, placing a hand on Chase's shoulder, "Cuddy offered to cut one hundred hours off my clinic duty if I did the New Year's ER shift."

"Nothing more romantic than blood and guts," Chase intoned, falsely bright.

"So will you go too?" Rurigawa asked, still keeping Chase at a distance, fingers splayed against the striped shirt and loosened silk tie.

"Of course, Alex," Chase said, and leaned forward. Rurigawa closed his eyes and let himself get lost in pure sensation.

A/N: Yes, another author's note. Long, long chapter, think of it as a Christmas present. (?) Anyhow, sorry this chapter is so awkward and OOC, I wrote it over a long period of time, and there was so much I wanted to put into it…and I realized this fic is getting very unfunny, which is SO not House. so I tried to put it a few funnies, but I don't know if they worked.

Well, belated New Year's again!

BY THE WAY I wrote the song in a few random moments, forgive the weirdness. :)


	10. Deal

A/N: I don't own House or PSP. I know that this fic isn't that good, but I'll try to make it better, ok?

And yes, I know this chapter is a little late. :D

GHXJW

"Cuddy! I want the deal." House flopped into the visitor's chair next to a very disturbed looking gentleman.

"House, can we talk later?" Cuddy sighed, glancing apologetically at the other man.

"No," House answered defiantly. "I just want to know, am I in time? Am I within the lucky eight doctors?"

"Yes," Cuddy replied exasperatedly. "Unfortunately."

House stretched his neck. It was cramping; he had slept in the oddest position last night. "Perfect. Who else is doing the New Year's shift?"

Cuddy ticked them off on her fingers: "You, Chase, Rurigawa, Cameron, Foreman, Trent, Parker and Wilson."

"So it's the whole gang's trippin' up the hood, yo?" House intoned, but inwardly he was groaning. Wilson? Why? He couldn't even look at the man, much less perform a decent surgery.

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean," Cuddy sniffed. "Now will you leave so I can finish the funding meeting with Mr. Marchland?"

"Yeah. Catch ya later, man." House popped a pill, gave the man his best "I'm crazy, stay away" look, and limped back to his office.

GHXJW

"But it's so strange!" Parker protested. "He's fine, getting enormously better until eleven-thirty in the morning, then suddenly he declines again!"

"Eleven thirty, every morning?" House asked skeptically.

"Yes," Parker insisted. "Look." She showed him the graphs of his vitals. "Steady until here. And then suddenly he's amazingly sick again. I don't get it."

"Yeah, he should get sick a little earlier before lunch," House said sarcastically. "That way we have more time to relax afterwards."

"There isn't any sickness that can time its severity so perfectly," Trent said definitively.

"What happens every eleven-thirty?" Rurigawa wondered aloud. "Maybe his current fluctuations are environmental, not necessarily connected to his illness."

House nodded. "Go check it out."

GHXJW

"Dr. Wilson!" Betty flew into his office. "Kara Whites just dropped to a thirty-two. We gave her atropine, but as you know, she'll only hold for another five hours or so."

Wilson stood up and pulled on his lab coat. "We have to find out what's wrong with her _now._"

GHXJW

It was eleven thirty in the morning. His team had just run out to check on their case, and House was watching Wilson run out of his office, down the hall. He supposed another cancer kid was dying. James Wilson, saving one little bald kid at a time. Wilson's altruism made House feel annoyed. It wasn't physically possible that one man could contain so much want for good for the world. It wasn't healthy.

And he would be doing the New Year's shift with said unhealthy man. He really couldn't help but feel a little sorry for himself. After all, nothing is anything without a dash of self-pity.

"House, clinic," Cuddy informed him briskly.

"Aw, Mom," he whined. Maybe it would actually work this time.

Cuddy adopted her best imposing "It's not New Year's yet. You have clinic duty. Go."

"But it's Christmas! The season of good cheer," House countered inanely.

"I'm half Jewish," she answered finally, rose an eyebrow, and marched out. House followed her torturedly. As he walked past a stressed-looking Wilson, his first impulse was to mime being dragged along by an imaginary leash. Wilson looked once at him, then sighed and looked away, effectively breaking House's cute impulses and putting him in a rather dark mood.

After picking up a file wordlessly, which earned him a raised eyebrow from Cuddy; House limped away and opened the door to the exam room. "Mrs. Fern?"

"It's Vern. With a 'V'," she corrected.

"Oh, vuck, I'm sorry," House retorted. "So. What's your problem?"

There was a second's pause during which Mrs. Vern tried to reassemble her brain, and remember why, exactly, she was stuck in this room with this crazy doctor. "Oh. I have terrible pains in my elbows and wrists," she supplied.

He considered her. "You play piano?" he asked finally.

"Yes, I'm a teacher," she answered hesitantly.

"You've been playing wrong for he past fifteen years. When you're playing something powerful like an arranged version of Tchaikovsky's 'Overture', you're supposed to roll the power in from your shoulders, but you tried to get the strength by whipping your hands against the keys. Result? Pre-mature arthritis. These are some pain and partial-recuperative meds. Pick them up at the front."

"Thank you." Mrs. Vern exited quietly, leaving House to his PSP. He pulled the machine out but didn't switch it on.

The thought of having a hundred hours of this mindless drudgery eliminated was tainted by the fact that he would share the operating room with Wilson, who was still avoiding him and House knew exactly why. It seemed petty, a spat over sex, but they both knew what it meant about them, how they functioned together and neither wanted to confront the truth. That it was true, that House took, and Wilson gave, over and over in a vicious cycle. Well, that's what it represented on the surface, but maybe, if you looked deeper…House didn't know why he was looking deeper; he didn't know what he was looking for. Solace on dark nights? Love? Hope? Sex?

A quiet knock on the door interrupted his thinking. "With a patient," he called. Trent poked his head in, then frowned, confused at the lack of patient.

"Just thought you might want to know. You were right about the mold spores, but the reason why he wasn't getting better was because he was taking the wrong medicine." Trent handed him a medicine package. "Cancer meds," he explained.

"Huh. Weird," House commented dully. "Well, put him on the good stuff, then."

"Already have," Trent said. "Should I send someone in here?"

House gave him a look that was deeply pitying. "What do they teach you, in England? Aside from, you know, how to make colonies and then spectacularly lose them then go work there, all the men Princess Diana slept with, what kind of dog your queen has…"

"I guess not." Trent backed out hastily of the exam room.

House idly hefted the weight of the cancer drip in his hand. Strange. Who would ever mess up that badly? Most people at the hospital valued their jobs. At least, most people _working_ at the hospital, he should say. Most people working at the hospital wouldn't make such a mistake…House sat up straight, suddenly connecting a lot of things together at once. Grabbing his cane, he stood up and limped as quickly as possible to the pediatric oncology ward.


	11. Proxies and Probable Forgiveness

A/N: Thanks to my reviewers! They really encourage me to keep going: it's why I have this chapter up so soon after the last one )

Hope you enjoy, I don't own House or Vicodin.

GHXJW

The door slid open with a bang. "I'm Dr. Gregory House, I have magical powers which will heal your daughter and hopefully buy me lunch." He stole a glance in Wilson's direction; unfortunately, Wilson was watching him darkly from next to the patient's bed. Their eyes met, and an electrical pulse of tension seemed to turn the heat up in the room.

Mrs. White stood up. "Who are you?" she asked, arms crossed.

"Sorry, I filled my 'repeat things for idiots' quota for today," House snarked. "Oh, snap. Well, there's always tomorrow." He went over to where Wilson was checking Kara White's vitals and checked the IV drip. "Saline, nutrients, bla, bla…corticosteroids. Cool. Is this a revolutionary new treatment for cancer patients?"

Wilson stood there, mouth gaping open, eyes wide. "How…?" He then turned to Mrs. White. "Mrs. White, I'm sorry. Someone obviously mixed up the dosage. This is a terrible mistake – "

"You don't have to be sorry, Wilson," House cut in smoothly. Inwardly, he cringed as he said the name. "Mrs. White knows all about this 'terrible mistake', don't you?" Her eyes were following him nervously around the room. "Your daughter isn't the one with the problem," he said softly. "You are."

"What do you mean, I have a problem?" Mrs. White practically yelled. "You have a problem!"

House peered at her and swallowed a Vicodin. "Yeah, I do. It's called idiot patient syndrome. It's been the death of many a good doctor."

"No need to get hysterical, Mrs. White," Wilson said patiently. "I'm sure Dr. House has made a mistake." He shot House the glare to end all glares. It was an improvement: he could look at House, instead of staring at the floor.

"No, I haven't made a mistake. I'm right." House didn't even return Wilson's antagonistic look. His voice was cold and clear, like a knife of ice. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you, Mrs. White?" She said nothing. "You know what you do every morning, at eleven thirty." Gasping, she sat up straight and fidgeted with her handbag paying full attention to every syllable he spoke.

"You know what you do, don't you?" House taunted.

"It isn't true, Dr. Wilson. What he's saying isn't true!" she shrieked frantically, leaping to her feet. "I would never do something like that!"

"Something like what?" Wilson asked, completely bemused, looking from House to Mrs. White and back. "You would never do something like what?"

"Yes, like what?" House agreed nastily. "Something like switching Kara's meds with the kid down the hall's?"

Wilson looked sharply at her. "What?"

"It's not true!" she screamed, and began to run towards the sliding glass door. House took one smooth step and tripped her with his cane.

"It is," he replied. "Or else why would you be running?"

"She's my _daughter_," Mrs. White spat vehemently from the floor Wilson's glare was nothing to her loathing-filled look: given a knife, she would have stabbed House repeatedly until he died. Wilson would just nick his ego, maybe make it bleed a little, then patch it up with some good old homemade food. There was a big difference, Wilson realized, between knowing House and wanting to kill him, and not knowing House and wanting to kill him.

"She's your _proxy_," House yelled back. "You have MBP, Munchausen By Proxy. You were using your daughter's cancer to get closer to Dr. Wilson, and when she started to get better…oh, boy, you just couldn't take that, could you? Being another nondescript patient this doctor has saved. So you decided to get a little extra love and care from everyone's favorite oncologist."

Tears leaked from Mrs. White's eyes, leaving watery black trails down her face from her eyeliner. "It's not true," she whispered.

"It is," House replied. "And you know it." He handed the cancer drip to Wilson, who unhooked the corticosteroids and put Kara back on the proper meds. House swept out of the room, yelling, "Security! Crazy person back there."

Wilson watched her cautiously while Security came running, but she didn't even try to move. She merely lay there, sobbing quietly, face down.

GHXJW

"So, are we done for the day?" Rurigawa questioned, taking off his lab coat.

"As far as I can foresee, no," House said from his desk, watching Cuddy walk in. "New case? Well, Rurigawa has to get back to his boyfriend, so…no."

"No new case," Cuddy said. "I just wanted to congratulate you on catching that case of MBP."

"Neither Kara nor our case would have died," House pointed out. "That's the point of MBP."

"But they would've kept paying unnecessary medical bills indefinitely," Cuddy replied.

"Isn't the point of the hospital to make money?" House retorted.

"Are you actually rejecting her thanks?" Rurigawa asked incredulously, lab coat still only half off his shoulders.

House rolled his eyes and said sarcastically: "No, I'm buying pink elephants, what's it look like?"

"Well, thank you anyway," Cuddy said conclusively.

"You're welcome," House answered graciously. She smiled slightly and walked out, glass door swinging behind her. She still hadn't noticed the crack in it. Then again, you could only find it if you were looking for it. It was thinner than a surgical needle: House had tested.

"So no new case?" Rurigawa intoned brightly, forgetting that he had been trying to take the lab coat off and shrugging it on.

"Looks like not. Tell Trent and Parker." House sat behind his desk as Rurigawa left as well, heading toward the elevator. Finally, some peace – he pulled out the PSP but was prevented from turning it on yet _again, _because Cuddy had just walked back in.

"Oh, and you know the conference? It was supposed to be next week, but the revenue unexpectedly closed down, so it'll be in March," she said quickly, clearly out of breath. House nodded briefly. "So that means, we'll both be here for the sponsor's dinner!" Cuddy added, a touch too happy at the pained expression on House's face. He was silent.

Then suddenly he yelled, "O God! Why hast thou forsaken me?"

"It's not that bad," Cuddy reasoned exasperatedly.

"Deliver me from the clutches of the bureaucrats!" he continued. "Save me from this evil woman who wants to stuff me in a suit and make me be polite! Cut the red tape! O God…!"

"House, you're going. Everyone else is, so you're going too. And that's final," she shouted over his exaggerated wails.

"Mommy, how could you be so mean? I just got rid of an MBP patient, too," House countered.

"You're going," she enunciated clearly.

He scowled at her. "Cut fifty more of my clinic hours."

"Thirty," she haggled.

"I am not going to a presumptuous, frilly dinner for anything less than sixty clinic hours cut," he said loudly.

She sighed, knowing he had gotten his way. "I'll cut fifty hours. No more."

He smirked and sat back down. "Don't worry, I'll spend that time effectively. Make a collage, some paper dollies."

"Right." Cuddy went out again. House switched on the PSP contentedly.


	12. Loving Tuesday, G Rated Piano

Wilson appeared in the doorway. "Thanks," he said. "Kara's doing better now."

"You're welcome," House replied simply. "Crazy mom shipped off to the police?"

Wilson nodded. "Her trial's late February." He hovered there, not quite sure what to do. Should he leave? Walking was still a little too tender for him to completely forgive himself for expecting too much of House, but still…there was something in that gaze. "MRI," he said abruptly. "Have to go."

House nodded. "I'll see you later." His tone and expression were grave and impassive. Wilson pressed his lips together in a parody of a smile and hurried back to his office.

Sitting heavily in his chair, he picked up his iPod from the edge of the desk so it wouldn't inadvertently fall on the floor or in the garbage can. The screen lit up when his fingers brushed the click wheel; "Houger Gorsey Wants to Say Sorry…" was paused. Wilson stared at it for sometime, then something clicked in his head. How could he have been so stupid? He supposed he had been far too occupied with Kara's case not to see it:

Houger Gorsey…Gregory House. Boy Next Door – House's office was right next to his. His own idiocy still bemusing him, he went back to House's office. "House!" he said, opening the door, but he wasn't there. House's chair was still swiveling slightly, indicating that he had just left, and in a hurry. As Wilson jabbed the elevator button, he wondered if it was possible that House had heard his revelation about the song, even though he hadn't spoken aloud.

Wilson ran into Cuddy's office, ignoring her assistant's feeble protests. "Where's House?" he asked her breathlessly.

Cuddy looked up from the files she was perusing with two stiff-looking old women. They eyed him, scandalized, and then decided to ignore him. "Clinic?" Cuddy suggested.

"Yeah, right," Wilson barked a laugh.

Cuddy shrugged. "I can dream. House is probably working on a case, or something."

"Right. Thanks." Wilson dashed back out. The two old women shook their heads and turned back to Cuddy, who smiled apologetically.

"They're just…I don't know."

GHXJW

Cameron walked out of the ER, lab coat swinging, but halting abruptly when she saw Chase washing his hands. She cautiously walked by him, but he said nothing. "Hi," she said, smiling.

"Oh, hi, Cameron. Didn't see you there," he said cheerfully, drying his hands off. "How did the surgery go?"

"Fairly simple hernia. We just had to fix the slipped disk," she answered, still not quite at ease.

"What's wrong?" he asked her, fixing his scrubs. "Just a hernia, right?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's not about the surgery," Cameron assured him. "It's just that…it's Tuesday."

Chase sighed and smiled slightly, catching on. "Right. And I haven't said 'I like you', or something similar, yet? Thing is, Cameron - "

"You've found someone else?" she whispered, horrified.

"Well…it's not like you care, anyhow," Chase replied. "Is it?"

"Chase…it's been, what, a year? I've been an idiot for a year. Now I've finally realized that I like you too." She smiled up at him, tentatively. "And I thought it would be apt to tell you on a Tuesday, but if you've already found someone…"

"No," Chase said, dry-mouthed. "I mean…I have found someone, but it's just…I still…"

"Yes?" Cameron prompted him, feeling a little giddy.

"I still love you," he said finally. "The other person…I can break it off."

"Really?" She hugged him, kissing his cheek. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry that I rejected you, so painfully."

He smiled. "Don't worry. I forgave you a long time ago." He held her closer; vastly aware of the physical contrasts between Rurigawa and Cameron, the way her spine curved in a different way, how she fit perfectly _within_ the circle of his arms, shielded, protected, not just merely held, the way her hair met his hands halfway down her back… he pulled away, senses reeling from the proximity and the strangeness. Her softness was just so unfamiliar, all he

"Sorry," she said instantly. "If you don't want to break it off with the other girl – " Chase smiled at her assumption " – I guess I'll just be the one reminding you politely, every Tuesday."

"I'll talk with the other person," Chase guaranteed her. "I do still love you."

She grinned fully. "All right. See you later?"

"Yep." Cameron bobbed up to kiss his cheek again (another dissimilarity, he noticed) and walked down the hallway, an extra bounce in her step. Chase sat down, suddenly weary. It was true; he did still love Cameron. And every time he and Rurigawa had kissed, had had sex, the little memory of him and Cameron doing the same thing (well, not _exactly_ identical, but the same general idea) kept niggling at the back of his brain. Most times he had ignored it, in the same way he ignored the Catholic priest telling him sternly that homosexuals would burn in hell.

But now, especially with the promise to break it off with Rurigawa, he couldn't help but face his choice. There was something about Cameron that intoxicated him, it was true, but there was something he shared with Rurigawa that he didn't quite have with her: deep, genuine friendship. He knew that Rurigawa would still talk to him, even when they split romantically.

Well, he didn't _know_ it know it, but somehow, he felt it. He could see Rurigawa being Uncle Alex to his children, Cameron in the background. And that was another thing – he never called her Allison. Never. But he called Rurigawa Alex. Sometimes he _thought_ of Rurigawa as Alex, a barrier years of medical training had created.

Would it be sufficient to say that Chase didn't know what the hell to do?

GHXJW

He had looked everywhere. Down in the ER, in the pathology lab, in the Lucas Wing, even in the clinic…Wilson flopped back into his office chair. House was nowhere to be found. It was only five, but Wilson could only assume that House had gone home. He hadn't thought to check for House's things next door, but right now he was too tired and too backlogged with paperwork to bother. Whatever happened, he would see House at home.

GHXJW

Wilson had assumed rightly; House was currently at home, doing what he did best. He was annoying people, specifically, his neighbors. It was five o'clock and while it was not past curfew, nowhere near, most people did not necessarily enjoy having their peace shattered on House's musical whims. Strange.

It had begun randomly as Beethoven's ninth, arranged for piano, then progressed into a quirky jazz improvisation that House had rather liked, moving onto Mozart's "Variations on Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star", back to Beethoven (the sonata: "Pathetique") and now, for some reason he was angrily pounding out a Rachmaninoff. He couldn't recall quite which piece it was, but it sounded like irritation and frustration rolled into complex movements, fingers quickly retracting, wrists arching exquisitely over the ivory keys.

Somehow, today, his piano wasn't enough. Usually it was an instrument of the things he couldn't say, his hands gently weaving melodies of unsaid words. Today, he needed to be able to do things directly, without use of an instrument.

This would require apologizing. This would require him going to Wilson and saying, "I'm sorry for being such a selfish bastard. Please forgive me, I have found that I can't quite live properly without you. Plus, my Vicodin is disappearing." Or something along those lines. Before today, it had been just that. A straightforward apology. As always, House had to complicate things by putting a certain song into Wilson's iPod, and now that was causing him endless torment. He should have thought of a better title. It was so overtly, blindingly _obvious_ it was him! But it had been impulsive, the writing, the arranging, stealing Wilson's iPod and putting it in. Impulses, House realized, were stupid. Impulses were his downfall.

He banged hard on a chord, and only the two upper notes sounded. Damn. He had broken his piano. Unfortunately, that wasn't as dirty as it sounded.


	13. As You Lay Sleeping

A/N: Chase-centric chapter. Needs to happen, I'm sorry, but more H/W later.

Yeah, OK, so the 'watching while sleeping' isn't an original idea. But I needed something stereotypically cute to make Chase want desperately to stay…

GHXJW

Chase woke up. He was warmly trapped between smooth sheets, body engulfed by softness, comfortable except for the prickling numbness in his arm. Rurigawa was curled up over him, head on his shoulder cutting of the circulation. Chase tugged himself free and turned to look closely at the sleeping figure. Those dark, dark eyes were shut, the chapped mouth slightly open with the quiet sighs of sleep. The dark hair was tousled, strands falling across onto the clean-lined, straight nose. The expressive eyebrows, usually quirked in concentration, were neutral, creating no lines in the young face. The gray morning light slipped from beneath the curtains and highlighted the small scar Rurigawa had by his eye, perfect in its imperfection. Unconsciously, Chase put out a tentative hand and brushed a line down the center of Rurigawa's face, enjoying the sensation of Rurigawa not knowing.

This peace only made Chase more aware of the decision that lay in front of him. He wanted Cameron. He needed Cameron. But there was something that had prevented him from simply telling Rurigawa yesterday, something that had made him stay. He liked to think that it was his deep compassion for other human beings. It was something more selfish, though. It was his want not to lose Rurigawa. It was his want to keep mornings like this, serene in their silence, secretive, yet open.

Surely, he would have moments like this with Cameron as well? He reasoned. Surely he would be able to wake up one day, and just watch her as she breathed, eyes still moving slightly under the smooth eyelids, caught in REM.

Rurigawa's eyes flickered open, coherence slowly turning on. "Chase," he said. "What's the time?"

"Six forty-seven," he replied quietly, savoring the roughness in Rurigawa's morning voice.

Rurigawa turned and groaned, putting a hand over his eyes. "Thursday?"

"Wednesday." Chase rolled out of bed and stood up. "I'll get breakfast." He walked into the kitchen and got bowls and mugs, the familiarity paining him. It occurred to him that he had never been to Cameron's place so many times in a row, never really made her breakfast, never fallen into a routine of near-domesticity as he had with Rurigawa.

"Cold, isn't it?" Rurigawa commented, rinsing out the kettle, filling it and putting it on the stove. Chase decided to enjoy it, the quiet rustle of water on steel, these noises. The whirr of the coffee grinder as it pulverized the fresh Kona beans Rurigawa had bought. The water slapping into the filter, the dripping into the mugs. Oh, this _hurt_. To think that this might be the last time.

"I think it might be a little strong." Rurigawa handed him a cup that he accepted with quiet thanks.

"Perfect, as always," Chase told him. "I…I don't know how to tell you this." He hadn't even planned on starting this conversation. He hadn't even wanted to, but somehow it spilled out. Rurigawa made a little noise of acknowledgement while ducking into the fridge. "But I don't think we can…make this work."

Rurigawa stood straight up and banged his head on the freezer door. "Why not?" he asked, voice weakened by pain.

Chase sighed. "It has nothing to do with you. Really. It's me."

"And?"

"Look. I told you I was over Cameron." Chase contemplated the coffee cup in his hands.

"But you're actually not," Rurigawa finished for him. "All right. What about the part where she doesn't love you back?" he put his mug on the table with a sharp clunk and walked back into the bedroom. Chase followed him.

"That's the thing," Chase said hesitantly. "Yesterday, Cameron came up to me and told me that she liked me back."

"Oh." Rurigawa had opened the closet and was pulling out a shirt. It was dark green and satiny, seeming to ripple under the early light like water. He threw it on the bed, along with a pair of black slacks and socks. "So. What are you going to do?"

"That's the thing," Chase said. "I don't know what to do."

"So you're asking me for advice?" Rurigawa answered. "I don't know about you, but I think I might be a little biased. Why don't you go ask Cameron?" He roughly pulled the sweatshirt off, then turned to look back in the closet.

Chase couldn't help but stare as avidly as he had the first time. Rurigawa's body was something he never tired of – the firmness in the shoulders, the tapering lines and jutting hips, the way he wasn't quite a supermodel but everything was defined enough to make people look twice. This was something he was sure he would never have with Cameron. Yes, he thought her body was wonderful. Yes, he had stared at her like this. Nonetheless, there was something obscene in a topless woman exposing herself so, a sort of dirtiness that tainted the perfection. In a man, topless was perfectly acceptable, but there was the hint of something more, some elegant hint that it could turn very unacceptable, in the very best way.

Chase closed his eyes against the image, but not for long enough. Rurigawa, having found what he had delved into the closet for, had pulled on the shirt, and it fit him in a way that couldn't be legal. Every slight movement was highlighted with a shimmer over muscle. He had forgotten the final two buttons, if he were a woman Chase would be supplied with ample visual access to his cleavage right now.

That was the problem. He wasn't a woman, and all Chase could see was the smooth movements as Rurigawa dropped his pants and folded them carelessly. Oh, God. He _had _to snap himself out of it. This was ridiculous. He was here to break up so he could be with the love of his life, not begin fantasizing about what would happen if he pushed Rurigawa onto the bed and very slowly…"You're doing it on purpose," Chase accused.

"What?" Rurigawa asked, putting a slim leg through the each of the pants legs.

"Undressing! Wearing that shirt! In front of me! While I'm trying to have this conversation!" Chase said loudly. "Look, if you want me to stay…"

"Firstly," Rurigawa said coldly, flinging the covers back to resemble something like a made bed, "I'm wearing this shirt because I forgot to go to the dry cleaner's yesterday. Secondly, sorry if I distracted you, but shouldn't you be thinking more along the lines of sweet, soft Cameron right now?" Chase's look was still skeptical. "Check my closet if you want," Rurigawa said shortly in response to his disbelief. He efficiently buttoned his pants and buckled his belt with the tight snapping noise of leather.

That wasn't a very good thought for Chase either. "I'm sorry," he answered simply. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Rurigawa said, scanning the room for any forgotten clothing items. "It makes sense. I don't quite understand it, but it's fine with me."

Chase stared at him again, for a different reason. "Really?" he said quietly. "Are you sure?"

Rurigawa picked up a sock, bending down and giving Chase quite a good view of that completely screwable ass. "What do you want me to do, scream and beg you never to let me go?"

"…Yes!" Chase shouted suddenly. "Yes. I want you to scream, and beg and plead with me not to go, so it's easier for me to stay."

Rurigawa opened his mouth, as though to say something, but closed it again and pulled his coat out of the closet. "Ultimately," he said finally. "It's your choice, Chase. I really can't help you here."

"Say you need me." Chase's voice was dry and pleading.

"I need you," Rurigawa said dutifully, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. "Seriously. How much cornier could you get?" He pushed Chase onto the bed, and Chase got this wild idea that he was going to fuck him – "I can't say I need you, I love you, please don't go. Because Cameron will say the same thing. And then it'll be really tough. So I plead no contest. Go ahead. No hard feelings, really."

Chase sat up. "To complete the corniness, can I ask for a last kiss?"

Rurigawa swung his coat on and picked up his bag. "I don't think I could deal with that right now," he replied evenly. "But I'll take a rain check. Don't forget to eat breakfast. And you've got three or four ties lying around; I think they're under the bed." The heavy door shut behind him, and Chase was left alone, standing in the cold kitchen under the fluorescent lights.


	14. Adorable, Cheating Children

A/N: The promised H/W. Unfortunately, all problems are NOT over for our favorite doctors, but if they were, they wouldn't be our favorite doctors. :D\

Don't own House, don't own Vicodin, don't own Steinway.

GHXJW

When Wilson walked out of the bedroom at five o'clock that morning, House was sitting at the piano, pressing a key over and over again. "Pancakes?" asked Wilson.

"I broke it," House said sadly, continuing to press the key. If Wilson heard that note one more time, he swore he was going to go insane.

"Pancakes?" he asked more determinedly. House nodded mournfully, and kept pressing. Now that Wilson listened carefully, there was a tinge of awkwardness in the note, just a slight fuzzy noise that wasn't supposed to be there.

It faded out as he focused on the smoothness of the batter, the exactness of the ingredients, the golden sizzle of the macadamia nut pancakes. He brought out a steaming hot plate for House and himself and set it on the table.

Sure, things weren't perfect yet. But they were okay, and would get better. House's face lit up unintentionally when he saw the pancakes, and he dashed from the piano to the table within seconds. Wilson couldn't help but smile; it was like serving an eager six-year-old.

Most of those kids were pretty adorable, Wilson thought. And he could live with the ones that weren't.

GHXJW

"Good morning," Rurigawa said as House walked in.

"Doesn't sound like it," House commented lightly. "Did another puppy die? Maybe a kitten?"

"A wallaby died," Rurigawa answered. House swiveled around, shocked.

"What?" Then he regained his composure. "Let that be a lesson to you, children. Kinky sex kills."

Rurigawa rolled his eyes. "More specifically, Cameron kills relationships."

"Ah," House intoned knowingly. The brightness in his eyes increased exponentially as he limped toward where Rurigawa was sitting. "Did wittle Cameron take the wallaby away? Is wittle Rurigawa missing Chase?"

"Shut the hell up," Rurigawa responded irritably. "At least I'm not brooding, like you were."

"Oh, of course you're not _brooding_," House said sarcastically. "Why did I ever think that? It's obvious you're tuning a piano." He frowned momentarily. Maybe his broken piano was getting to him more than he thought. Well, it was a Steinway, after all.

Rurigawa sighed and looked up to see House staring vividly at him, a mischievous smile playing around his mouth. "What – " he began, but got nothing more out.

GHXJW

James Wilson had the worst timing in the world. Really. So, of course, he had to step out of his office at just the right moment: just in time to see House swoop down and kiss Rurigawa full on the mouth. He stood there, rigid, watching Rurigawa's mouth open and accept House's invasion, watching both their eyes flutter shut in what, Wilson assumed, must be pleasure. He was clearly some sort of voyeur, because he stood there, mesmerized as House placed a heavy hand on the table to support himself and Rurigawa's hand hovered around House's collarbone and their lips stayed in contact for longer than was really necessary.

James Wilson, having the worst timing in the world, went back to his office and slammed the door hard enough to drown out House's next sarcastic comment: "I hope that felt wrong, Rurigawa. Hope that made you want to apologize to the wallaby, or some crap."

GHXJW

"A better description would be a kangaroo," Rurigawa contested. "He just jumped away, tra la la."

"I think wallabies jump too," House said pensively. Then he snapped, "Where's my coffee?"

Rurigawa got up to go through the same motions he had whilst making coffee for Chase. "I miss him," he said. "Already."

"Save it for the therapist, _please_," House groaned.

Rurigawa changed the subject. "How's Wilson?"

"A good a cook as ever," House replied happily. "Did Cuddy get us a new torture victim?"

"Not as far as I know," Rurigawa said, handing him a steaming cup. "I got here about five minutes before you did. Trent and Parker went to look for another case."

"And what were you doing?"

Rurigawa made an expression halfway between a grimace and a triumphant smile. "Brooding."

GHXJW

Wilson's head was in his hands. There were tears he wanted to cry, screams that wanted to rip loose from his throat, but that would be unprofessional, so he just sat there.

Rurigawa. Was Rurigawa the reason Houger Gorsey couldn't say sorry? All Wilson knew was that House had initiated the kiss and although Rurigawa knew that he and House were…well, they weren't exactly…He didn't even know. And even if Rurigawa did know, House was a professional liar. He should get paid.

So he couldn't blame Rurigawa. He had just been an innocent bystander in another of House's insane plans. Once again, all of Wilson's anger was directed at House, just like after the Tritter incident, just like so many times before where Wilson had to fish House out of something, pull him up like a lifeguard does a drowning man. Something was wrong. When did House ever save Wilson? When was Wilson ever pulled from the blackness in the last moment, when the world went crashing around his ears? House was only there to kick him down a little further, make sure he was firmly buried in the hell he had created himself.

Wilson supposed his friendship with House could be dubbed 'masochistic' and 'unhealthy', but not always. Like when he found "Houger Gorsey": that was a priceless moment. Like the first time he and House has kissed, that first zapping contact in the kitchen. The way it had felt before the pain.

And of course, House just had to punish him for having these memories. He had to rip at Wilson's heart with a glass shard; today it would be labeled: "House was kissing a younger man, even after my forgiveness." The footnotes would run two pages long. Wilson tried not to care. But it daunted him, House's blatant disregard for humanity. It daunted him.

GHXJW

House was happy. The New Year's shift was going to be fine. Wilson had made him pancakes. New Year's was going to be fine. When he saw Wilson later today, they would be all right. They would be okay. New Year's was going to be fine. Maybe they'd kiss, recap that night only differently, rightly. New Year's was going to be fine.

Perhaps it would be called a redeeming aspect of House's personality that he was so happy that it was going to be fine. This lightness, this overall cheeriness which he had come to identify as overload on drugs or alcohol or both could be achieved with neither. He couldn't smile in front of his team, because that would just scare them senseless, but inside, he was glowing.

New Year's was going to be fine.

New Year's was going to be fine.

New Year's was going to be fine.

Wilson had forgiven him.

New Year's was going to be fine.


	15. Striking Fake Gold

It was interesting, House thought, how happiness could fade in an instant. How all it took was one veiled, icy look and House knew he was in the doghouse again. (No pun intended). One veiled, icy look and House thought, maybe New Year's won't be as good as he'd hoped.

He couldn't go up to Wilson and ask, "What's wrong, honey?" in a soothing tone; the very thought made him gag. Of course his opening line was as sweet as vinegar: "I hope your burning holes into my skull with your eyes is just a new seduction technique." Wilson said nothing, but dropped his gaze onto the empty coffee table. "I guess not," House said heartily, and limped into the kitchen, digging into the refrigerator. "Although it was sexy."

"Not as sexy as Rurigawa, evidently." House froze, hand still in the refrigerator. He slowly straightened, forgetting what exactly he had been attempting to retrieve. So _that_ was what this was about. Jealousy. Want. A smile spread across his face as he turned to face Wilson.

"Definitely," he replied, flicking the refrigerator door shut. "I get really hot for late-twenty-something racial minorities."

Wilson frowned, eyes staring, unseeing, at the television. "_That's _why you kissed him? Because he's Asian?"

"Yeah," House retorted. "And I hate Foreman because he's black, and I screwed you because you're Jewish."

It was Wilson's turn to freeze unnaturally. "Good night, House," he said finally, voice too even.

"I mean, you're Jewish, _and _you're a fag. You were almost _asking_ –"

"I _said_, good night," Wilson spat forcefully. House had amazing people-reading genes that told him exactly how people were feeling. These genes gave him instincts on what to do, how to get them to do what he wanted.

Sometimes, House ignored these instincts.

"So you were there?" House asked quietly, leaning on the couch. Wilson said nothing, didn't move, didn't make a noise. "You were standing outside my office, the whole time? You watched me lean down, and kiss him slowly, slowly licking – "

"Go to hell, House," Wilson said. House went to his bedroom leaving Wilson curled up on the couch.

GHXJW

He was shivering uncontrollably. Like an idiot, he had forgotten to go get the covers before falling asleep indignantly on the couch. But if he moved to go get one blanket, he would die of cold. The fetal position suited him just fine, thank you. He didn't know why he was still here, and not at a hotel. Perhaps it was the eternal optimist in him. Maybe he believed that somehow, House would apologize profusely and admit his undying love and they would skip off into the sunset. Perhaps it was his eternal, internal romanticist.

Or perhaps it was just his eternal laziness.

Oh, God, it was cold. It was a deep-setting chill that crept into his body and wouldn't leave. It was mindlessly numbing him. He couldn't think of anything else. Which was good, actually. Because he didn't want to think about anything (read: House) else.

An irregular thumping told him that his luck was broken. He would be cold, _and _have to think about House. He peered at the approaching figure, trying to figure out why the hell House was suddenly fat on one side. "I'll switch," a gravelly voice said out of the darkness. Wilson didn't reply. "Come on, Jimmy." Wilson flinched at the use of the familiar nickname, but didn't say anything. If he ignored him long enough, it would all be a bad dream and it would all go away. Suddenly, House's gray outline was eclipsed by something heavy falling on his face. "Fine." It was a comforter. Ironic, Wilson thought, that the one thing that was causing him discomfort should hand him a comforter.

He went back to sleep.

GHXJW

"And remember," Cuddy said. "Tomorrow is New Year's, and these eight doctors have the lucky shift: Doctors Eric Foreman, Robert Chase, Allison Cameron, Amy Parker, Aaron Trent, Alex Rurigawa – " Wilson stomach did an involuntary back flip " – James Wilson, and Gregory House." She smiled around at them all. "Meeting adjourned."

Wilson walked out of the office, quite subdued. Something inside him was happily twisting his stomach and lining it with lead. He couldn't quite make eye contact with anyone, much less Rurigawa, who was looking at him concernedly, which Wilson couldn't bear because, really, it was all _his_ fault!

No, no, Wilson appeased himself. It was House's fault. He went down the corridor to check up on Kara Whites because he didn't really want to see his office, or House's office – they brought to mind memories that were too fresh and raw. He slid open the glass door and did a basic visual checkup. Unfortunately, Wilson thought ruefully, she was fine.

He immediately berated himself for this thought. _Fortunately_, she was fine! After such a long time without the meds she needed, she was making quite a fast recovery! Really, he was starting to - and he winced with horror – think like House, that people were only there for his benefit, for his distraction. He didn't need a puzzle. He needed people, and emotions and…and…he needed House. When he was on his own he felt everything far too acutely, without the overall sheen of annoyance or amusement at House's biting remarks to mask him.

GHXJW

There's no hope like failed hope, House thought bitterly. He had almost _convinced_ himself that New Year's was going to be fine. Love was making him stupid. Love was making him as giddy as a fourteen year-old before the first date. He'd finally been able to define what he felt, clearly, as love, but he supposed he shouldn't even assume that. It was very different from the way he had been enthralled with Stacy, that there might be an equal out there. It was more of a quiet and steady adoration and admiration that made itself known with every thump of his heart.

Of course, he knew this was a ridiculous notion as well. His heart churned blood, in and out, supplied his body with oxygen and all that other fun stuff. It couldn't feel emotion. But in a way, this was apt; it represented that it was real, he needed Wilson to live.

"We have a new torture victim," Rurigawa said tonelessly. "Seventeen year-old female, with heart failure but no conduction abnormalities. No family history of high blood pressure, either."

"Boring," House said, but without even any interest in the proclamation. Heart failure – the world seemed to tease him with its inappropriately appropriate irony.


	16. Purple Carnage

A/N: So…I know, I skipped Christmas…but I kind of didn't want to be writing about Christmas in mid-January; it's too off-season and I wouldn't have captured the feeling right. You know, the anticipation in the air, the constant sugar overdoses, etc…I would like to thank those people who take the time to review – your comments make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. :D And I know I said I had midterm exams, but, hey, everyone needs a "study break", right? As a side note, I think I might add a few chapters in the beginning to develop their attraction more – it's very stilted.

If I don't stop, the author's notes will be longer than the chapter itself (although this one is pretty long)! Enjoy this next tragic chapter in the saga of Gregory House and James Wilson's dramatic romance. (NAWWT…XD) Don't own House and don't own Tinkerbell.

GHXJW

_Seven._

"It's way too early for an emergency calls," Chase said. "Nobody's going to be drunk yet."

"Except for the lightweights," Parker pointed out.

"…Who toasted New Year's five hours early?" Rurigawa answered skeptically. "No, don't think so, unless _looking_ at a champagne bottle gets them stoned." The eight of them sat on the benches outside the ER.

"We should keep clean," Wilson said tonelessly. Everyone else nodded their agreement, but slowly, with no real fervency. There were some crazy people out there who actually enjoyed this sort of thing, the excitement of the emergency room. Chase, for example – well, Chase was either a masochist or completely crazy. It wasn't that Wilson couldn't handle the blood and gore and spilling guts, it was just he didn't like it. He didn't like the wild frenzy, the salty tang of too much blood hanging heavily in the air. He didn't like how you couldn't control anything, how it was just a mad dash to save a person's life. He didn't like how it was so unplanned. Did this make him a control freak?

No, he placated himself firmly. This makes you very, very bored, to be thinking about why you don't like the ER. Although, considering the other things he could be thinking about, maybe the negative side of the ER was better. It was better than thinking about House. Wilson shot the diagnostician a covert glance down the bench. House was sitting there, almost alien in the garish scrubs instead of the customary t-shirt, blazer and jeans. The ridiculously expensive sneakers still peeked out from under the baggy hem of the scrubs, though, and the cane rested on his left. His head was resting against the cold, white wall, and his eyes were closed and still, even under the light. Telltale white plastic buds were in his ears; only music could make him look so calm. Almost tamed, Wilson thought.

Almost at peace.

_Nine._

So far they'd had three relatively minor surgeries. One involved too much booze, a car, a minor skull fracture along with a punctured lung. Not too much blood, on the outside, at least. The second involved no booze, but copious amounts of blood. Chase didn't quite remember why or how, but his fingers were still aching from the concentrated movement of thirty-six stitches up a fat man's leg. The third one had comprised of too much booze and glass. She had been walking along the road, tripped up and smashed into a window. They had spent the better part of an hour picking out the glass shards meticulously. Parker and Cameron were still in there now, checking her for any more leftover filaments. Chase was glad he hadn't had to do it, as doing a fluoroscopy over a woman's entire left side wasn't high on his wish list.

Now, Cameron and Rurigawa working together in the ER. It was an irony that Chase really couldn't get over. It made him giggle a little, that Cameron really had _absolutely no idea_ that Rurigawa was the 'other girl.' He knew he shouldn't find it funny. Actually, it wasn't so much that the situation was actually funny. Chase was a little giddy, partially from a caffeine overload that he knew was going to help later, and partially from being in the ER at night. He had only done the night shift twice before in his life, and found that he had thoroughly enjoyed it. There was something forbidden and ghostly in the halls when you walked to wash your hands, there was something wonderful in the way he shared a laugh with Wilson right after the surgery. The patients were the same, but the nighttime cast a spell that made them all best mates for twelve hours. Magical. Chase giggled a little again, imagining Tinkerbell in the ER, casting fairy dust all over the doctors. Foreman was looking oddly at him.

That was all right, though. He would look oddly at himself too.

_Eleven._

"Twenty-three year old male, five-nine, hundred forty. Burns varying from first to third degree on torso, right arm and right thigh, broken left arm, suspected spinal damage," Cameron read out. ""Chase," she smiled shyly and Rurigawa wanted to hit her, "Foreman and Rurigawa; you prep for surgery, Wilson and Trent, anesthesia, House and Parker, get the patient."

"Sure," House snarked. "Get the guy with half a leg to get the patient. Makes sense."

"I'll go," Trent volunteered. "House, you get the anesthesia ready with Wilson." He trotted off, following Parker. Rurigawa snorted behind his mask. Of course Trent would go with Parker. He snapped on his gloves and took his position next to Foreman. It would just be too awkward to stand next to Chase, accidentally brush against his hand and feel like he was going to die of the romantic sappy tingles. Plus, Cameron was eyeing Chase in a way that made Rurigawa feel intrusive.

Wilson and House dashed for the doors in could quite possibly be a coordinated move (it looked theatrical enough) to admit Trent, Parker and the patient. He rolled in on a crash cart. The surgeon's cue; everyone stood poised and ready to pounce as Parker wheeled the patient cautiously the last few inches. She stood and readjusted her cap and everyone leapt into action. Foreman, Chase and Rurigawa each took scalpels and cut off the man's clothing, tossing the ripped strips into a plastic bag. Parker and House immersed the man's arms in a tub of cool water, dripping some onto his chest and upper leg. Trent inserted an IV into his neck: there was no other place to put it. The man was mumbling and moaning softly, but Wilson pressing the mask to his face cut off his noises of pain. "He's under," Wilson announced.

"Do you think we should intubate?" Trent asked, panting slightly.

Wilson placed a stethoscope over the man's chest. "No stridor," he confirmed. "I think we're all right."

Chase palpated the burns carefully. "The shirt's stuck to his skin," he said distastefully. "It's melted right in."

Foreman leant in to take a closer look, then stood up. "Chase is right. There's going to be some nerve damage."

"Serves him right for wearing purple on New Year's," House said loudly.

"Check the tag," Rurigawa said.

Chase looked up from where he was inspecting the burns. "What?"

"Check the clothing tag. Depending on what materials it is, you might be able to pull it out safely. It might be all right with the skin grafts," Rurigawa explained patiently. He picked up the scalpel, and carefully tugged the collar out from plastic bag. Slicing off the tag and a bit of the sleeve, he handed the samples to Parker. "Why don't you and Cameron run some labs," he suggested. She nodded, and they left, almost running to the pathology labs.

It hadn't been conscious, the whole sending Cameron away thing. Really. I promise, Mommy…Rurigawa sighed, and would have put his head in his hands if he hadn't been a) in the middle of a surgery and b) holding a scalpel. Instead, he watched silently as Foreman and Chase checked the rest of the burns. He really did disgust himself. He had told Chase he was fine with it. He had been, at the time. Sort of. A little bit.

But now he found that there was a definite ache in finding himself alone, only making coffee for one, waking up to a cold, lonely morning. He had found a tie under his bed. It was forest green, with golden polka dots. It was ugly as hell and it was Chase's. It currently resided in the back of his closet, far away from the sunlight, jealously guarded against reality.

"Right," Chase said, standing up. "Let's check the spine, then." He and Foreman moved to turn the man over, and Rurigawa figured he should help. He put his hand on the man's shoulder and wrist, minding the broken arm as Chase and Foreman carefully flipped him over.

"I spot Mr. Ugly," House sang. Rurigawa quickly scanned the man's back, fingers hovering a centimeter above the mildly bruised and irritated flesh. There it was, just above the L7 vertebrae.

"It's in the lumbar curve," Rurigawa announced.

Chase frowned and took a look, leaning over Rurigawa's arm. The proximity was intoxicating – he shook his head slightly and focused on the patient's gory, fire-shredded arm. "Can't be sure if it's an actual break or just a slip."

"His leg's twitching," Rurigawa offered, dry-mouthed, eyes closed. It wasn't possible. It wasn't possible that Chase didn't feel it. "It's a slip."

"Let's get to it, then," Chase said briskly, and walked to the other end of the table. "Scalpel." He held out his hand, but Rurigawa couldn't bring himself to put the instrument into the other man's hand. "Do I have to remind you?" Chase asked, a little irritably, but in a teasing tone. Those words, God, those words. Those words that had been said with such passion naught but six days ago. Those words that had fallen hotly from Chase's lips into Rurigawa's ear, making him melt...

Rurigawa passed the scalpel, careful not to look at Chase's eyes, which he knew were concerned, or to touch his gloved hand, which he knew would be fatal. He picked up another one and hefted the weight in his fingers. He'd always loved the sharpness of the instruments, how the steel gleamed under the ER lights. Maybe it made him something of a sadist. _You let Chase go, _his mind said. _You're not a sadist. You're a masochist._

"The shirt's ten percent cotton, ninety percent polyester." Cameron banged into the ER, a little breathlessly. Rurigawa noted distastefully how Chase's eyes were involuntarily drawn and hypnotized by her heaving chest. "So, they won't work with skin grafts."

Everyone thus had to go through the painstaking process of pulling the melted threads out carefully and dressing the burned areas. House didn't do much, but read them the extensive patient history. "Apparently, this idiot was lighting a firework," he commented into the focused silence. "That's why he's here. I think he missed the fuse by a few inches, what about you, Chase?" Just as they were working on putting the slipped disk back into place (ironically, a hernia surgery), another siren came wailing to their doorstep. "No way," said Chase. "There is no way we're taking this call."

"I'll go anyway," Wilson slipped out the door nimbly, leaving everyone else to do the final rounds on the man. There were a few nurses working the New Year's shift, so he'd be placed in one of the rooms like the other patients they'd had, and watched over by the nurses. There were always two people on menial tasks, cooling the burns for example, so as to be able to care for a previous patient, should the need arise.

The clatter of the crash cart could be heard from down the corridor. "Damn," House muttered softly. Everyone else paused for a second.

"We're in the middle of a surgery," Parker said, sounding a little panicked. "We can't just this emergency too!"

"Wilson wouldn't have brought them here unless it was urgent," House replied. His grim words were confirmed by Wilson dashing in through the doors.

"It's urgent," he said, but the crash cart that followed his entry made his words needless.

All the doctors had seen their share of blood, of guts, of carnage, but this – this was beyond carnage. This was…massacre.

"Oh, God," Cameron murmured. "Oh, God."


	17. Bent Needle

A/N: Yes, I'm a bad, bad writer…cliffhanger…! Anyway, here it comes. Okay, okay, I used the v-word. But come on. We're all mature enough, right?

I don't own House M.D. or Vicodin.

GHXJW

It was a woman, House observed. Her features were barely discernible behind the mask of congealing blood and purple bruises. There were open rips in the flesh, dragging from her temple to her chin like tiger scratches. Her body was in the same state, torn to shreds and battered black. Her clothes barely made any difference, tattered as they were – the splotchy pattern of dark handprints against her body was fully visible. Blood was dripping gently from everywhere, from a slow torrent on her legs to a trickle on her chest, blood was every where.

"Who's the head doctor here?" one of the paramedics inquired.

Everyone looked at House expectantly. "I am," he replied, rather reluctantly.

"Right. Here's her file. We've already had to restart her heart twice, and she's been on oxygen the whole time." House glanced back to where Cameron was fitting an oxygen mask to the woman's face.

"Do you know who did this to her?" House asked concernedly.

He looked at House and sighed. "She has bone fractures in all her limbs, not many major wounds…" he handed House two plastic bags. "The weapons, and her personal items," he said, pointing to each bag accordingly. "You guys are the closest hospital – any farther and she _will_ die. I'm sorry. Good luck." The paramedic clapped him on the shoulder and trotted down the hall, annoyingly efficient and patient-free.

"Hey, what kind of surgery is there for someone who's been put through a meat shredder?" House yelled down the hall after him, but he merely waved his hand dismissively and walked briskly on.

He came back inside of the ER. "Right," he addressed the team. "First, let's read this cool little file." Everyone watched apprehensively as House opened it and pulled out the paper with a flourish.

"Hurry it up, House," Wilson said tersely from behind his mask. "This woman's life is on the line."

"Her name's Rachel Weisman. She's twenty-eight, five-seven, one hundred thirty. Rape," House said, stating the somewhat obvious. "She was first raped, then beaten. The reason why it looks like Wolverine is because they were using brass knuckles…knives…" He let the statement hang in the air heavily as every doctor absorbed his words. Sure, they were no strangers to rape victims. They had seen horrors most people couldn't imagine – worms coming out of places they really shouldn't, the more typical compound fracture, and the like. But it wasn't the injury itself that was dumbfounding, but the capability of human beings to do such things to one another.

"Do you know why they…?" Parker asked quietly.

"Does it really matter?" House fired back. "Come on, let's go." The team sprung into action. Chase, Foreman and Cameron assessed the wounds as House read them out. Wilson, Parker and Trent kept an eye on her vitals whilst preparing the surgical instruments, and Rurigawa finished up on their other patient.

"This'll need at least eight stitches," Chase commented, looking at her leg. "There's nothing immensely serious, it's just a bunch of medium-sized injuries."

"Does that make her an anthology or a collection?" House wondered rhetorically.

"Should I send him up?" Rurigawa asked. "He's done."

"Get some nurses to take him up. You wash up and get back here, stat," House commanded. "After that, you'll take over Chase's job, so he can go wash up. We're good little boys and girls, we take turns."

Rurigawa rushed out of the ER, glad to be away from the heat and overwhelming intensity. House turned his focus back to the patient. There was so much raw flesh and bruised skin, he didn't know where to look first. "Finish reading the file, House," Wilson said, checking her sedative drip.

"Severe cuts, a few stab wounds, nothing really special. Nothing different and fun," House answered. "Although…hey…"

"What?" Foreman said exasperatedly.

"She's pregnant," House announced. There was a moment of quietness where every doctor prayed and hoped and tossed their wildest dreams into the dark, baring them for God to examine. Then they shielded themselves quickly in the more comfortable mold of professionalism.

"Okay," Cameron breathed, not quite mastering herself. "Okay." Rurigawa walked back in.

"You're up next, Cameron," House ordered. "Then Parker, then Foreman, then Wilson, then Chase, then Trent, then myself. She's pregnant," he informed Rurigawa.

"Already?" he asked, frowning and snapping on his gloves and mask.

"Not Cameron, idiot," Chase was quick to correct. "The patient."

Rurigawa ducked his head. "That's pretty nasty…"

"Understatement of the century," Parker retorted, voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.

"Right, let's go. Based on the general assessment, this long, wide cut on her leg is the worst, so we'll get to doing that first. I think we should set her ribs as well, although they only seem to be fractured," Foreman rattled off.

House curtly nodded his approval. "Foreman and Chase, do the stitches. Parker and Trent, do her ribs. Wilson and Rurigawa, check out her neck. Here it says she may have suffered some sort of spinal injury."

Each doctor bustled off to his or her assignment, working in a heavy silence that was occasionally punctuated only by quiet observations: "These cuts are really thin. It's almost like a paper cut…" "You're right, how strange…" "More thread, please…" until Rurigawa swore loudly. "Damn!" he exclaimed. "How the hell did they miss this?"

"What?" Wilson asked sharply. Rurigawa pointed at a small wound in her chest that was steadily leaking blood. There was a sharp silver needle sticking out very obviously from that point.

"I don't want to pull it out," Rurigawa said, checking the wound from different angles. "But if this is slanted, it's probably punctured her lung."

As Wilson's hand fluttered around her neck, trying to check the depth and slant of the needle, he noticed something else shining there, not silver, but gold. He squinted and followed the thin chain around her neck to the pendant. It was splattered with blood, but he could still identify the symbol. "She's Jewish," he muttered, more to himself than for the team.

Of course, House heard him. A series of emotions flashed across his face, and Wilson tried to read them all. Was that concern? Was that anger? Was that contemplation? "Anti-Semitics in New Jersey," House said finally. "Who would know?"

"She didn't necessarily get attacked because she was Jewish," Wilson objected. "She's a young pregnant woman, and they were probably a bunch of really drunk guys…"

"White blood cells," House interrupted loudly, "don't attack themselves unless they have a reason. Those drunk guys had an autoimmune disease. So to speak," he added in response to the blank stares he got.

"So since that's the only reason we've got we're going to use that one?" Wilson asked skeptically.

"Unless you have a better reason," House shot back.

"That's the worst reason I ever heard," Wilson replied shortly.

"Yeah, so it's hard to believe. It's devastating, it's shocking. Get over it," House snarled. "Get out of fairyland, Wilson. This is real. It's true. You and I both know it." The team continued working, ignoring the conflict, or at least choosing to act like they were. "Rurigawa, swab her, go run some labs. Parker, why aren't your hands clean yet?" Both rushed off to do as House bid Rurigawa pausing only to swab the woman's mouth and vagina.

House limped over to where Rurigawa had been standing, over to where Wilson was still checking the needle wound and decidedly not looking at the golden Star of David glinting softly on the woman's collarbone. House leaned in. "Yeah, so it's hard to believe," he said in a low voice. "And we all wish it was happily-ever-after. But it's trued, both you and I know it." He paused for Wilson's reaction, but he gave none, except for maybe a slight tremble in his working, gloved fingers. "Come on," he continued, almost pleadingly. "Come on. Don't you want these guys to get caught? We have to." Wilson stopped trying to focus on finding the depth of the needle and sighed.

"You don't know that it's anti-Semitism," he argued again, but more softly.

"And you know that it isn't?" House retorted. "This is rhetorical. Look. Just…" He looked down for a moment and closed his eyes. "Just trust me, okay? Trust me." Wilson looked at him, the sudden tensing of his mouth made invisible by his surgical mask.

"All right," he agreed. "Should I take this needle out?"

"We should run a scan," Trent suggested.

"What, like an MRI?" House countered sarcastically. "Who wants to go wash their hands now?"

Foreman looked up. "Me," he said tonelessly.

"Right. You can have a break, after you get me an ultrasound machine. I'm going to check on the Jap." You could feel everyone else shy away mentally from the racist term as House limped out. Foreman practically went out running.

"I think surgery makes him uncomfortable," Chase commented, drawing a wry laugh from the rest.

Parker entered quietly. "Did I miss anything?"

"Not really. Want to finish up on the bandaging? I'll help," Trent offered.

Suddenly, Wilson felt very much out of place. Trent and Parker obviously had something between them, if the glances meant anything, and Cameron and Chase' s sly looks at one another were making him feel intrusive and uncomfortable. He scanned the monitor for lack of anything to do. The numbers were fluctuating way to fast. "Her vitals are dropping!" he yelled. "We need atropine." Chase flew from where he was working to the drawers, and ran back, shoving it into his hand. "She's not breathing. We need to intubate."

"Her tongue is way to swollen to let the tube go down," Parker observed frantically. "And her nose is broken."

"Then do a tracheotomy," Wilson said exasperatedly, hooking the atropine onto the drip, in addition to the anesthesia.

Trent passed him a clean scalpel. "Chase, you do it." He passed the instrument on. As Wilson put the atropine into her drip, almost instantly leveling out her heart rate, Chase cut open her trachea and inserted the tube, inflating the cuff and taping it in a fluid motion as Cameron passed him the materials needed. Connecting it to the ventilation machine, he stood back and took a deep breath. "I haven't worked in the ER, haven't done that procedure for at least two years," Wilson explained. "Didn't want to cut off her head by accident." Chase nodded understandingly, his own heart still pounding from the adrenaline.

"Where's House?" Foreman asked, coming into the ER with an ultrasound machine on a crash cart. "I'm going to go for a few minutes, wash up."

Wilson nodded. "Let's get this ultrasound done." He moved the woman's arm so her entire side was exposed, and carefully cut away the clothing. He slathered on the gel and switched on the machine, putting the wand in the junction between her arm and shoulder. "Parker, will you hook that for me?" He indicated the ultrasound machine and the monitor.

"Sure." She walked quickly and inserted the plug. "Right."

Wilson carefully moved the wand down the woman's side. "You can't really tell…"

"Do it a little higher up," Trent advised.

Wilson moved the wand accordingly. "Huh. Still can't quite tell…"

House banged into the ER, Rurigawa behind him. "Guess what Daddy found," he gloated. "Four different semen samples in Rachel's itchy place."

"We have four different samples, all of them are related. So it could be a certain family," Rurigawa said. "Other than that, the last thing Rachel ate was chicken."

"Not pork," House continued. "Did you find the big, bad, pointy bad guy?"

"Not yet," Wilson answered lightly, still focusing on the screen. House came closer and peered at the monitor as well.

"There's Osama," House cackled, pointing to a vague area with his cane. "No lung puncture. No artery puncture. It's almost like it was…" He trailed off, swinging his cane down suddenly.

"It was almost what?" Cameron prompted.

"What was the name of the paramedic, Wilson?" House asked stonily. Foreman entered quietly, and resumed stitching.

"I – I can't remember." Wilson hated this feeling – he knew what House was getting at was important, and he couldn't help at all. "Johnson, or something."

"Helpful," House snapped. "Which direction did they come from?"

"Left side," Wilson said, putting the wand down.

"There were four drunks, and four paramedics…" House began. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"No way. That's where I draw the line, House," Wilson said flatly.

"Come on, it fits! Why is the needle still in there when it could be causing sepsis? Why are there so many thin, thin cuts? How thin are they? Scalpel width, right?" House insisted.

"Why do your theories always have to do with people hurting each other?" Wilson shouted, somewhat irrationally angry. But it wasn't just this one case he was talking about, but countless others where House had implied and insinuated every inappropriate thing on the planet, and half the time he had been wrong. And plus, there was that other thing…Wilson spared Rurigawa a quick glance then focused back on House. "It doesn't always have to go like that."

House pretended to consider. "Well, it does here. Welcome to House-land."

"Can I get exiled from House-land?" Wilson asked dumbly, picking up the wand again. "Rurigawa, apply pressure and pull it out, will you?"

"Hang on." Rurigawa picked up a needle and walked to the other side of the table. He lifted the woman's skirt up and pulled down her underwear.

"What the hell are you doing?" Chase inquired, voicing everyone's thoughts.

"Seeing how much force is required to pull out the needle," Rurigawa replied simply, sinking the needle into the woman's butt. "If the paramedics did do it, they might have twisted it to make a barb or something…"

House nodded. "Good thinking."

"I'm not saying I agree with you," Rurigawa warned. "I'm just double checking here. I'm thinking like a sadistic paramedic." He pulled out the needle slowly, then dressed the wound. "Okay. Here we go." Walking back, he adjusted his mask and placed his hands, one applying pressure around the puncture, the other delicately resting on the end of the needle.

Wilson nodded. "Go ahead."

Rurigawa pulled slightly. "I think it is bent…Wilson, can you…?" Wilson moved the wand around, reapplying a little gel then gingerly putting the wand on the woman's side. "Yeah…forty-five degree angle?" Rurigawa pulled in the other direction, and the needle started to slide out. "Okay. We got it."

"Great, onto the next one!" Cameron said sarcastically.

I hate the ER, Wilson thought desperately. Someone save me.

GHXJW

A/N: Yeah, so it's a stupid ending. Well, I'm a stupid author. :D


	18. Julie and Johnny

A/N: I'd just like to thank all my reviewers, and ask a favor of them: Could you find your favorite quote in this story so that I can write a better summary? It can be any quote, not overly long, though, because it has to fit in that box they give us…THANK YOU.

And just as a side note, I've already started restructuring the whole fic, each chapter is about…two thousand words now…I'm going to try add more material to make every chapter at least two thousand words. Which means all of you can keep rereading until kingdom come! Even if the plotline is finished, I'm not going to mark this as complete until it's perfect. :D

Don't own House, M.D., or Vicodin.

GHXJW

Unfortunately, Wilson was not saved. He had to work through one of the most grueling surgeries of his life – it seemed that every five seconds there was a new cut, more stitches, less oxygen, and more blood, more blood. They had to turn away every case until four in the morning, and by that time they were so burned out they would have screwed up any surgery anyway.

"Cuddy's cutting off two hundred hours," Rurigawa breathed as they sat on the bench outside at six. Dawn was peeking in through the glass, tingeing it was the periwinkle-rose-mauve of winter sunrise. Everyone else nodded wearily.

"Three hundred," Chase amended. "Oh, my God." He exhaled heavily. Cameron snuggled beside him, yawning.

"I'm so tired," she purred. "But not _too _tired…" she added suggestively, staring Chase in the eye. He smiled accommodatingly and tried not to think too much about how he would really just like to collapse right now (and about how maybe Rurigawa would understand that better than Cameron). Foreman coughed. House and Wilson, seated at opposite ends of the bench, were silent.

Rurigawa stood up and turned away to face the ER. "I think I'm going to stay here until eight or so, when Cuddy comes in."

"No way," Parker objected. "You look dead on your feet as it is!"

"Yeah," Trent chimed in. "Let's all go home."

Trent and Parker left first, then Foreman. This left Chase, Cameron, House, Wilson and Rurigawa to stand there awkwardly. "Well," Chase attempted. "Happy New Year's, eh?"

Wilson nodded, replying, "Yeah…hell of a New Year's." House was still strangely quiet.

Rurigawa smiled wanly and left, conveniently ignoring the fact that he didn't know where the hell home was. He felt strangely as though he had left it back there, in the hall, in someone else's hands.

GHXJW

When House awoke, it was one o'clock in the afternoon. Wilson was snoring on the couch (he always snored when he was extra tired) and there was the faint tinkling of droplets into the sink. Obviously he hadn't turned it off properly, after washing his hands and face.

House ignored it, addressing the more important question on his mind. He needed to get Wilson back, that was for sure. There was no question. He had lived for the past nine years, eight months, one week, two days, four hours, forty minutes and thirty-nine seconds with Wilson, and he wasn't about to give that up. He supposed he could compose poetry, see if it worked. It did in formulaic romances. Julie meets Johnny. Johnny likes Julie. Julie likes Johnny. The go out. Johnny, being male/a complete ass, does something to make Julie mad. They break up. Johnny writes an inane poem ("outpouring of his deepest thoughts") about the lights in her hair or something equally vapid, they get back together. Happily ever after.

House put aside the fact that he had used Wilson's ex-wife's name in his metaphor (it could be Julia), and that "Johnny" sounded a lot like "Jimmy." (No, it was just John. Or Jonathan. Nothing close to James). The song ("Houger Gorsey"…House kicked himself mentally. Again.) had seemed to have done something. Maybe he should write another one.

Of course, it wasn't like House wanted to put his emotions down on paper. It was too concrete, and made him too vulnerable. He liked saying things, things he could easily deny later. But writing it, in his own hand…seeing it in his own handwriting…no. Doing the song had been all right. He had changed the voice slightly, used an acoustic instead of an electric, and had changed his name around. Sure, it was the dumbest and most transparent mask ever, but there was a mask. He could mask it.

Writing it out couldn't quite be masked, especially not from himself. House got up, wincing as the cold hit his leg. Automatically taking a Vicodin to steady himself, he padded into the living room. The television was murmuring about some road accident, providing a background for the humming of House's thoughts and Wilson's steady breathing. The slanting afternoon light hit the side of Wilson's face in a curved pattern of shadows, leaving half of it to the darkness. The first button of his shirt was undone, and his tie dangled in his hand like a dead silk snake. His legs were bunched up beneath the blanket, his other hand poised by the curve of his throat. As House looked down on him, he felt something akin to fizz waltzing in fast forward, from the backs of his ankles to the back of his head.

Shall I compare thee to a winter day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate…except for when you're mad at me…and I know I deserve it…but still… "Damn," House muttered to himself. He decided that as his 'romance' (perpetual storm of thoroughly warranted anger?) with Wilson was most definitely not formulaic, therefore poetry would most emphatically not work.

What never worked? Telling the other party straight out and attempting to explain didn't usually go over too well. House limped into the kitchen, glancing back once at Wilson, spread out on the couch like some languorous chess board, checkered in the gray light.

Yes. He would tell Wilson outright, explain to him. That ought to work, especially for him, as it never worked for anyone else.

GHXJW

Wilson's first thought when he awoke was that he had gotten amazingly, thoroughly stoned. He had no recollection of the time passing, or what exactly had happened. He glanced around the room, trying to piece together the events of the last evening. Or, whenever. He sat up slowly, head pounding slightly, waiting for his eyes to focus in the dark. House's apartment – that's where he was. He wished, not for the first time, that House's lamp was nearer to the couch, the one that got brighter gradually so as to prevent his eyeballs being seared out by white light. It was obviously nighttime already…

Right. He had done the New Year's shift, with that insane surgery. Almost like getting stoned, but with a lot less drinkable alcohol. Wilson sat up straighter, and hit his head on something. He fumbled with it, finding a button and pushing it. The center started to glow, growing slightly brighter in each pulsing moment.

Wilson sighed. Right. House. What was he going to do? Because, frankly, House had pushed it. Of course Wilson desperately wanted to just forgive him and shove it into the past. But whenever he saw Rurigawa, or even House, an image would rise unbidden: lips that weren't his working against House's, a light hand dragging across House's blazer…

And then there was the second part in which this scene was hotter than it was meant to be. The part where Wilson had to sort of accept, to put it in House's words, that he was a "Jewish fag." The part where he viewed Rurigawa as competition, even if he wasn't.

And then there was another part. Why? Just why? Why had House done that, so risked the relationship, especially after working so hard to be forgiven? Why had House started this all up in the first place? Sure, Wilson knew House enjoyed stirring things up, throwing things around, not letting anything quite settle. He knew that House actively tried to avoid routine, liked to look for new things. But was that why he had decided to kiss his best friend? Was that why it had progressed into sex, was that why House had written "Houger Gorsey"? And was House knowingly upsetting Wilson because he was bored?

Wilson looked toward the bedroom where he knew House was sleeping. He considered going in there, asking all these questions, but then thought better of it. Live and let live, right?

GHXJW

"We're flying on March twelfth," Cuddy informed him, handing him papers. "And returning on March seventeenth."

"We miss a weekend?" Wilson half-whined.

"Get to go sightseeing," Cuddy chirped helpfully.

"With House?" Wilson retorted skeptically.

Cuddy shrugged. "Well, here's your itinerary." She handed him a thick white envelope, and with a quick wave and smile, quitted the office. Wilson sat back. The conference was approaching, and he hadn't even done any background research. He glanced at the papers. They contained the basic information on the topics and presenters – who was doing what and where, and all those extra little details that Wilson preferred to leave to someone who could actually read the document. Presumably Rurigawa could – obviously the Australian papers were in English, so Wilson looked them over, leaving the Japanese ones for whenever he got up the courage to ask Rurigawa for a translation.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Assuming it was one of the nurses, Wilson called, "Come in."

In walked House, limping pronouncedly and looking at the floor. Wilson didn't say anything, merely watched as House eased himself onto the couch. There was a silence in which neither said anything, or even looked at the other. Finally, House said, "Sometimes, psychological and emotional pain manifests itself as physical pain." Wilson nodded, trying to pass off as nonchalant. His pulse was racing, his ears catching every minute scrape of House's cane across the carpet.

"I've been taking a lot more Vicodin lately," House continued.

"You need more?" Wilson asked in a neutral tone, but heart sinking. And he had let himself hope that House was here to make it all better.

"Not only that," House said, giving the hope life again. "But I miss omelets and pancakes." Wilson's mouth tightened. "Been missing you," At this, Wilson looked up. "What you saw, the other day," House went on. "Was a mistake; I was trying to prove a point to him." Wilson nodded tensely. He was still waiting for those words, those two golden words that House might say. Those two words that would fall from his mouth like pearls that Wilson would keep and treasure forever. "So, you know. There isn't anything going on there."

"Didn't seem that way." Wilson cut in, a little angrily.

"Aw, Jimmy. Were you playing hooky when life was teaching that class about deceiving appearances?" House asked, a little bitingly.

"No. It's just, what am I supposed to think if I walk out of my office and see you, kissing someone else?" Wilson asked him. "Really. What the hell am I supposed to think? That it's a science experiment?"

"You're right; it looked more like a piece of literature to me," House snapped.

"God, House! What is your point?" Wilson said, loudly and exasperatedly.

"What's _your_ point?" House returned.

"…I just want to know…" Wilson's voice took on a hushed, broken quality. Suddenly he was unsure of what to say; the words quivered and jumped in his mind, not holding still long enough to form a coherent sentence. "…That you care about me…" he finished lamely, and regretted it instantly.

"Well, take my hand and we can skip down the hall straight down to the enchanted castle!" House said sarcastically. "Happily ever after. Oh, wait. I forgot."

"House – "

House kept drawling loudly: "There is no enchanted castle. Prince Charming _doesn't_ exist. Bummer."

"You can't skip," Wilson said. Another silence.

"I'm sorry," House said plainly. Wilson jerked his head up and looked at him, shocked. He had said it. But now that the words had come…somehow, the pearls were dulled.

"I can't trust you," Wilson whispered, discovering this as he said it. Suddenly there was a gaping abyss somewhere in his stomach as he watched House's expression fall almost imperceptibly, but to the most highly trained House-readers. "I can't trust you anymore. When have you ever…?"

The end of the question hung heavily in the quiet. A crash cart clattered by. House stood up, trying to hide his wince. "You should move out." He walked out the door, and it shut behind him with a click. Wilson heaved a sigh, not of relief, or of joy, or of sadness, or of grief. Just a sigh of tiredness.

GHXJW

A/N: And please remember to tell me which quote is your favorite! Thanks XD


	19. Silhouette

A/N: HAHA, XD…I know I said "Even if the plotline is finished"…but what I meant was…"when"…I think I confused people. Sorry. That was not the end of the fic. Although it could present closure, I have cooler stuff up my sleeve. "Pills" isn't over yet, my pretties. I'm going to torture you some MORE!

Sorry if this chapter is OOC, I couldn't really gauge the intensity correctly so this chapter came out as a garbled piece of shit…will try to perfect later!

To the anonymous reviewer: You are my HERO. Type your username so I can message you back or reply!!!

GHXJW

It was a big, thick book, sitting on the coffee table, and it was glaring at him. It was sulking now, after he had refused to pick it up. It had been begging him, almost on it's knees, but something had stayed his hand, and now it was glaring at him and he was studiously ignoring it, pretending he didn't see how the sunlight reflected off the yellow pages to strike right into his eyes.

Well, it wasn't quite that he had refused to pick it up. More like, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Because that big, thick book of glaring yellow pages had realtor's numbers in it. And moving out meant that there wasn't anything left, that he moved on. Funnily enough, House's apartment had been his refuge when he had drained all his marriages of life, but now, he was looking to escape again, but now, from his refuge.

Oh, God. Wilson didn't want to give up. He didn't. He was fucking tired of running, and now his legs were giving. The irony, and the dull ache in his chest, and just how _tired_ he was had slammed into him two hours ago, when House had left the office, and now he was carrying an enormous burden. It was such an enormous burden that he couldn't even reach out a hand for that big, thick, glaring book.

For some reason, he had left the hospital early, fully intending to vacate the apartment, but that stream of thought had been stopped by the dam of one simple action: taking out the key. The fact that he had such easy access to House's home made the stream turn to ice. It froze, and now, here he was, sitting on the well-worn sofa and staring dumbly ahead at the dark kitchen.

His phone rang, and he leapt at it, so grateful for a distraction. He didn't even bother to berate himself for thinking of patients as distractions. "Hello?" he said breathlessly into the phone.

"Dr. Wilson?" a high voice said on the other end.

"Betty? What is it?" he shifted into a more alert position from where he had been sprawled on the couch.

"Kara Whites," she said, voice quieted by nervousness. "And House."

"Why? What happened?" he asked urgently. Even through the crackle of bad reception, he could hear the hysteria in her voice.

"Just – Doctor –"

Wilson grabbed his coat and shoved his feet into his shoes, whilst looking out the window, checking for traffic. "Okay, okay. Betty, I'll be there in five." He clicked the phone shut. Shit. The road was clogged up with trailers and SUVs. He wouldn't make it in fifteen with his car. The only things getting by were bicycles and motorbikes.

An idea hit him, and he approached it cautiously but rapidly. He _had_ dropped House off this morning, before going into the parking lot, right? (He thrust aside the memory of awkwardness and silence). The keys were strewn carelessly on the table. Taking a deep breath, Wilson took them. Picking up his scarf on the way, he hightailed it onto the street.

GHXJW

Riding a motorcycle, Wilson observed, wasn't as bad as he had thought, as long as one wore the helmet. He roared and weaved in and out of swearing truck drivers and soccer moms lounging in the enormity of their gas-guzzling cars. The beauty of New Jersey suburbia. He stopped with a loud screeching noise, in front of Princeton-Plainsboro and switched off the ignition, not even bothering to park it properly. There were several police cars already stationed outside the hospital, and for the millionth time Wilson wondered what in hell had happened.

He jerked the helmet off as he ran towards the nurses' station, which was in a frenzy. "Watch that bike," he yelled to someone he recognized as Andrea (or was it Anita?), and dashed up the emergency staircase, taking two steps at a time. He sprinted to the pediatric oncology ward. (Never mind that he was tired of running).

"Betty?" he called uncertainly, pausing in his mad dash. He grabbed a passing nurse's arm. "Where's Kara Whites?"

"ICU," she answered, looking at his hand.

"Thanks," he gasped out, and ran back down.

"Where's Kara?" he shouted upon entering. He noticed Betty sitting in a corner. "Hey, Betty," he said more quietly, approaching her. "Hey. What happened?" His own heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his breath wheezed slightly.

"Kara's mother came back," she whispered through her tears.

"And?" he prompted her impatiently.

"She had a knife," Betty sobbed, clutching at her cardigan woefully. "And she – she stabbed Kara…"

It hit him like a freight train. "Oh, God. And House? What happened to House?"

"He caught her," Betty continued. "And she screamed at him, and then she stabbed him, too. I pressed the panic button. Security came."

"How is she?" he gestured at Kara.

Betty shook her head. "We don't know if she'll make it. Oh, Dr. Wilson, I'm so sorry…I know I'm supposed to be trained to handle this kind of thing, but…she just stabbed her…and it's her daughter…" She put her head on his shoulder and heaved a gut-wrenching sob. "I'm sorry…I should've tried to stop her…"

Wilson broke away from the partial embrace. "I have to go see Kara now. Can you hang these up?" He handed her his jacket and scarf. "And put this in House's office." He gave her the helmet. Oftentimes, he found that giving people direct, concrete tasks, however menial, helped them refocus.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson. Kara's attending oncologist," he introduced himself, rolling up his sleeves. "What's the latest?"

"Fifteen second to third degree stab wounds in the chest, torso, legs and neck. Two slashes across the face. One lung is punctured, and her IV was forcefully removed, then stabbed vertically into her wrist…we had to take her off the cancer meds, because we don't want it to interfere with the stuff we're giving her," said a masked, unidentifiable doctor.

"Right," Wilson said quietly, stepping up. All her wounds were neatly bandaged and cleaned, but somehow, this was worse than Rachel Weisman. Imagining the scene was so much worse. There was a plastic mask over her face – at least they hadn't needed to intubate. But her heart was spiking dangerously at times, the numbers fluttering like a hummingbird at certain, tense moments. "Is she doing all right?"

"As well as can be expected," another doctor assured him.

"As soon as you can, put her back on the cancer meds, all right?" Wilson asked them. "I'll come back later. Call me if anything happens. Betty knows my number; she'll be back in a few." He began to walk out, then popped back in. "Two things: Where's House? And where's Mrs. White?"

"House is getting fixed up in the Lucas Wing, and Mrs. White is being detained in Cuddy's office."

Wilson walked down the hall and stairs more purposefully toward the Lucas Wing. He had been so, completely right about Mrs. White…he hoped to God that House wasn't badly hurt! As if his leg weren't enough! Much as Wilson was loath to admit it, especially after his (harsh, in retrospect) words that morning, he cared about House. It didn't matter now about whether he cared about him as more than a friend or not, but if House died now without Wilson seeing him at his last, without Wilson there to tell him to keep fighting…he quickened his pace.

He knocked on the door, then let himself in, mentally preparing for what he might see. What if…? What if…?

House was sitting in the bed, one leg out of it, surrounded by a wary team of nurses. "I'm fine," House snapped irritably. "I'm fine."

"Dr. House, we just have to check – " one nurse attempted.

"Would you like to check if she stabbed me up the ass too?" House said rudely. "Because I'm pretty sure she didn't, but you know me, I'm such an incompetent fool. Wouldn't know a knife if it came and stabbed me in the face." The nurses were uneasily quiet. "Wait, it didn't do that!" House continued sarcastically. "And it didn't hit me anywhere else critical, and not any deeper than two inches. I think we're good."

His last phrase was cut off by Wilson spluttering, "Two inches?"

House looked at him, and that blue gaze went through him like a laser. Several expressions worked themselves over House's face in quick succession. First was, 'Oh, look who decided to show up…" followed by, 'What the hell am I going to say?' followed by a raised eyebrow and slight smirk. "Wilson," he said loudly. "An actual doctor."

The nurses bristled and once again attempted to examine him. "It's not worth it," Wilson cut in. "You can go. Thank you." They filed out like obedient schoolgirls.

"Thank you," House said neutrally, not looking at Wilson, but playing with the hem of the hospital blanket.

"Are you all right?" Wilson asked, sliding the door shut behind him.

"She got my arm pretty deep," House informed him. "Then she scratched my arm. But," he smiled, "I hit her with my cane." Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Unfortunately, not as dirty as it sounds." House swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Well, I'm going to go back to my office, save more people. You?"

"I'm going to check on Kara," Wilson replied, somewhat tonelessly. He really didn't know what to say.

House limped toward the door and slid it open with his customary bang. Wilson saw the shudder of pain as House exerted force on the stabbed arm. "House," he said sharply.

"I'm fine," House growled, and stalked out.

Wilson sat on the hospital bed. God, he had been so worried. Images of a bloody and deceased House haunted him still. The setting sun painted bold stripes of color across the otherwise drab room, in brilliant, thick lines of golden pink. The colors melded like the perfect skin of a nectarine, the lighter hues offset by a deep red that Wilson couldn't help but think looked a lot like blood.

GHXJW

It was two in the morning when Wilson finally went back to House's apartment. Kara had not yet stabilized, but Betty had urged him to go home. "You look asleep on your feet," she had chided him.

In a typical House move, House had taken the bike back, leaving him to ride the bus. It all passed by in a blur, Wilson too tired to even mind the obviously drunk man leering at him from the back. Images of Kara's deep wounds flashed continually across his retinas, along with the wild look in Mrs. White's eyes as she screamed, "She deserved it…!" Wilson gave himself a little shake and hopped off the bus. He mindlessly opened the door and locked it, then threw himself onto the couch, dragging off his coat as he did it.

What if Kara didn't make it? It wasn't likely.

Wilson let this thought well up in the silence like a giant tear engulfing him, making him drown in the hopelessness, until he was brought back to reality by a wet line on his cheek.

Shocked by the fact that he was crying, Wilson went quietly into the bathroom and sat on the cold tiles, remembering the last time he had been in this bathroom at this time. To think that he had been upset over a mere thing like sex! To think that even earlier today, he had been worried over calling a realtor! Was there no end to his own inanity? Maybe this was life's way of telling him not to get complacent – just when he thought that nothing could possibly get worse, throwing him yet another devastating curveball.

Wilson surprised himself again with the little sob that emitted from his throat. Kara came to his mind again, choking, dying…the x-ray of the punctured lung, along with the picture of it…but what made him cry harder was not Kara, actually. When it faded away in a wash of dry blood, what lingered in his mind like splinters of harsh memory was the look on Mrs. White's face during the interview. Her eyes had been wild, insane and uncontrollable. She had applied makeup, but horribly, so the bloodshot whiteness of her eyes was ringed with smudged line of black, her pink mouth pasted on as she cackled. Then, her crazy, crazy roars of laughter when Wilson had quietly told her about Kara's condition, her feral grin when he told her about House. The word 'retribution' echoed faintly in his mind.

He let himself go. He let himself sob, and cry as though his very soul was wrenched and torn – then he tried to stop, but he couldn't…it was just so unbearably tragic, painful –

His eyes stung as the door flew open and light flooded in. A silhouette stood against the brightness, and Wilson squinted.

It was House.

The shadow carefully folded itself and closed the door again, covering them in a blanket of darkness. Strong arms moved around Wilson, and he let himself be held, clinging to House's shirt long after the tears had stopped, just absorbing the warmth or their bodies pressed together under the sink.

GHXJW

A/N: lolz, this fic is so full of DRAMA...well, it's almost almost almost coming to a close, girls and boys! If you have the time, please try and find me a quote; as helpfully pointed out by a reviewer, the summary sucks.


	20. In Shots Veritas

A/N: Okay, thanks for all the support everyone :D AND I'M SORRY THAT I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN A CENTURY OR SO…. don't shoot!

Firstly, in response to my anonymous reviewers:

honestly?: Although Mrs. White had MBP for some time, the stabbing isn't part of the MBP. She just went over the edge.

GHXJW

In the dark, as Wilson watched House sleep, he got a horrible idea. A horrible, horrible idea. It was brilliant, but it was very manipulative, and selfish, not to mention right down nasty. And right after House had been so…well, Wilson didn't want to use the word 'nice.' It was juvenile, and so overused, and so wrong for House anyway. And right after House had…held him, underneath the sink, his bum leg probably cramping like a motherfucker, and let him cry all over him like a lost, snotty child, Wilson didn't want to do this to him. He wanted to trust House, to take his word for it.

He sighed, turned over, and decided tomorrow was a good time to execute his plan.

GHXJW

"Cuddy, I have to leave early," Wilson said, fidgeting with his tie.

She didn't bother looking up from her paperwork, but merely raised an eyebrow as she scribbled away. "And why is that, if I may ask?"

"Uh…" He stood there, frowning and thinking rapidly. He didn't sound sick. He didn't look sick. He didn't have a kid to come home to. Hell, he didn't even have a wife to go home to. He fidgeted a little more with his tie. Maybe he should've thought this out first. "House," he said, deciding on the truth. "I have to go because of House."

Cuddy did look up this time. "What's he done this time?" she sighed exasperatedly, sitting back and brushing her curly hair out of her face, ready to listen and sympathize with yet another long rant about House and his general idiocy.

"Nothing, really," Wilson answered. Except for push Wilson into a deep hole of something (maybe love), and at the bottom of that hole there were the spikes of jealousy, lust, and New Realizations, all of them ambiguously ugly yet beautiful. "I just need to. Um. Do something."

She peered at him in a way that was far too discerning for his taste, and then nodded slowly. "All right, you go then. But you'll have to make up for it in clinic hours."

He smiled – he had expected nothing less. "Thanks."

"It better be good," Cuddy said as he pushed open the door.

Wilson, totally thrown, looked back at her. "What?"

"Your prank. It better be good." She grinned and returned to her paperwork.

"Yeah." Well, he wouldn't exactly call it a _prank_, as per say…

GHXJW

Even as he got into the car, his nerves were already humming with adrenaline. Just the_thought_ of what he was going to do already set his heart racing and his breath coming more shallowly. Relax. Just relax. Yes. It was okay.

Oh, God, no, it wasn't. Wilson sped up and almost ran a red light; because he knew that if he let himself, he would make a U-turn and drive all the way back to the hospital at full throttle. He had to do this. He had to know the truth.

The truth. Oh, the beautiful, beautiful truth. People tended to put it on a pedestal, but from Wilson's experience, it was a sadistic bitch that liked to hit you in your weakest spot. He supposed he should be afraid of what he would find out when he asked House about the truth, and got it in all it's sadistic glory. The thing that separated Wilson from House, however, was exactly this: hope for something better. Wilson called it optimism; House called it naïveté – just another perfect example of their differing views. He parked roughly in front of the house, and locked the car as he ran, almost breaking his neck when he tripped over the stairs, and throwing himself through the door when it finally unlocked. He carefully shut it behind him, and then walked into House's apartment. His pulse still drummed loudly in his ears, and his breath came heavily in the newfound quietness.

Wilson started in the bedroom. There was one on the bedside table, that much was obvious, and one in the drawer of the bedside table, in case House ran out. He moved to the closet and rifled through House's clothes, listening for the clattering sound, and found none, then moved to the bathroom. He opened a drawer, and had to scoop up its entire contents and dump it in the plastic bag he was carrying with him. House could win a world record. He moved onto the next drawer. Razor blades, unopened boxes of toothpaste – bingo. Wilson tossed that one into the bag as well. In the living room, there was one on the piano, two under the coffee table, one under the cushions of the couch. Chances were that House didn't even know about those, but Wilson didn't want to take chances. He wanted to be sure.

GHXJW

His nervousness died down a little, but they jumped back up and bit his hands with the jitters as soon as he heard the key turn in the lock, and those irregular footsteps approaching. "Hi, House," he said quickly, as House entered.

"Hi, Wilson," House mocked, throwing his helmet and jacket onto the couch, along with his keys. He rested heavily on it for a moment, then went into the bedroom. Wilson followed him.

"Your leg okay?" he asked cautiously.

"Yeah, it's fine," House answered, almost sincerely. "Except for this great, gaping hole there is where there used to be muscle. I think it's called an infarction. Or something."

Wilson started to reconsider his plan. House only talked in such fragmented sentences when h was in pain. House's sarcasm only leveled down from venomous, bruising and fantastically harsh to nipping and slightly cold when he was in too much pain to do anything but go through the motions. Maybe a Vicodin or two would help. "Um. Don't you have a Vicodin?"

"Um, no." House had used the mocking device twice in the same conversation; the situation was deteriorating. He had gotten to the stage where his breathing got ragged and he started to knead his leg in a desperate defense against the pain, which Wilson knew was only getting stronger. His chest was heaving, and his knuckles were white around his leg. Suddenly, Wilson was reminded of House during sex, but he urgently brushed that thought away.

"Should I get you something?" Wilson suggested slyly, wrestling with the want to just give it up and give House his pills. _You need to know the truth. You need to know the truth. _At what cost? Wilson cried to himself, but the golden words were already falling out of House's mouth:

"Get me…the shots."

Without letting himself pause and reconsider what he was doing, Wilson ran to the bookshelf and nearly dropped the box in his haste. He ripped the syringe free from its plastic cover and quickly tied the knot around House's upper arm. A quick look into House's eyes told Wilson that House knew exactly what he was doing…and that House was letting him do this. As he plunged the syringe into House's arm, he rested his forehead against House's and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered against House's rough cheek, as his head collapsed onto Wilson's shoulder, followed by the rest of his long body.

See, because sodium thiopental is a truth drug. Used by the bad guys, and all that jazz. But that didn't really matter, because at that moment, Wilson was very much a bad guy. And he never cared too much for jazz, anyway. But the look of pain, plainly written across House's face in the harsh lines in gray and sweat, had almost broken his newly found, bad guy resolve. And watching House merely _acquiesce _to him was even worse, the salt and vinegar and acid poured on his raw wounds. He took a deep breath. "House, you know what I'm going to ask, right?"

House mumbled something incomprehensible, facedown on the duvet as he was. Wilson reached out a hand instinctively and turned him over gently. House exhaled deeply, eyes glazed over with the drug. Wilson took a deep breath himself, and let the question out in the long breath: "Were you telling me the truth, before? About Rurigawa?"

"Yes," House droned, struggling to sit up. "Yes, of course I was."

"Of course? What do you mean by that?" Wilson pressed, remembering that the questions had to be clear and precise. Under the influence of the drug, people couldn't read inflections or facial expressions as well as they usually could.

House finally managed to sit halfway up, supporting himself weakly on his hands. At Wilson's question, he stopped wriggling and swung his gaze toward Wilson. Again, the blue eyes were like magnets, drawing Wilson away from reality. Taking slow, measured steps, Wilson approached House cautiously, until House struggled to stand and Wilson caught him before he banged his head on the floor. He carefully removed him, lanky limb by lanky limb, and sat him back on the bed, leaning over him. House's head dropped again to Wilson's shoulder. "Because," House whispered woozily. "Couldn't lose you."

Wilson's internal organs, having been tied down with lead weights, suddenly bounced up so high he couldn't feel them anymore. "Why couldn't you lose me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"Don't know." Again, these words uttered in such sincerity shot a tremble across the back of Wilson's neck. "But I just know I can't lose you. I mean, honestly." Wilson ignored the irony in that last phrase. "For some strange reason, you've become…something. More. I mean. I guess." House was coming back to himself, eyes refocusing, fine motor skills returning. "Can't lose you," he murmured again. "Need you." He put his hand tentatively on Wilson's lower back, simultaneously numbing the area and making it tingle with hot electricity.

Wilson closed his eyes, shutting out the image of the fine, dark wood headboard against the pale blue wall, and the cobalt-tinged evening light flowing in through the window, and inhaled against the side of House's face. The stubble scraped his cheek in a welcome discomfort, and House's hands were pulling his hips closer, and all the while he was drinking in and drowning in the elegantly clean, piquant and zesty, rather sharp scent of House that encompassed him completely in a cloud of the familiar spiral out of control. If it was intoxicating to merely smell House, to taste House was another universe completely: the rich warmth of coffee coupled with the slight tang burning of alcohol, a little sandwich residue, the sticky sweetness of a few raspberry lollipops, and underneath it all, the lingering bitterness of Vicodin…

House pulled his hips closer and more urgently and firmly now, causing them both to fall heavily and awkwardly onto the bed. For a brief, clear moment, Wilson worried about House's leg, but then he was tugged back into the heat, and the world was spinning and twirling and doing mad pirouettes upside-down and backwards, but it felt _right_, and God, screw everything, forget last time, because now Wilson _knew_, and there was nothing else anywhere about anything that mattered more.

GHXJW

A/N: Feel free to shoot me. Although, do bear in mind, that if you shoot me, there won't be any more updates, no matter how late.


	21. Staged

A/N: Okay, I wrote this at eleven pm whilst listening to Diana Krall…forgive this crappiness :

izzabella: thank you for our long, helpful review that made me smile. I'm not such a big fan of my own story in general; I think it needs major revamping, but thanks for revisiting and making my day with a review! Hope you're reading this and enjoy my update.

Same goes to everyone else: here's chapter 23!

GHXJW

Surprisingly, they didn't have sex. They didn't even get their clothes off. House came to and after a while so did Wilson (having been knocked out by House's almost confession) and they stared at each other for a while, got up and cleared their throats a little, tried to look a little less disheveled. Wilson pulled off his tie and shirt, throwing both on the bed, and pulled on one of House's shirts, and a sweatshirt over that. House had swept by him, leaving a light, careless kiss on the side of Wilson's mouth, then moved to the piano. Bach's Invention a Voix 15 started playing as Wilson walked to the kitchen. This pattern was so familiar, yet there was something new in the air, and it combined with the smell of macadamia nut pancakes, making it impossible not to stop grinning.

GHXJW

It was four a.m. when the phone started ringing. Wilson stumbled towards it, nearly breaking his neck, and picked up. "Hello?" he said, voice still raspy with sleep.

"Kara stabilized and is going to be all right," Rurigawa's voice came over the line. Even at this, Wilson smiled, at his folly and his mistrust, and the excellent news this voice was bringing.

"That's great!" he exclaimed, wincing as House turned on the light and limped into the room. "Are you her attending?"

"No," Rurigawa answered. "But I was here, and I checked on her. She'll make a full recovery…from her wounds…" He ended hesitantly. "I don't know about the cancer, of course, but –"

Wilson cut him off. "She'll recover from that too. It was just the MBP mom that put her at risk."

"Right." Rurigawa sounded relieved. "Well, I'll be here until nine or so. See you then."

"Wait." House took the phone from Wilson. "What the hell are you doing?" he barked down the line.

"I don't know," Rurigawa said brokenly. "I lost track of time, I guess. Harrison can't come to work for two weeks, and Cuddy asked me if I would like to oversee the hematology department…"

"Is this too much for wittle Rurigawa to handle?" House simpered sarcastically. "And so what?"

There was a pause. "I said I'd ask you."

"And?"

The sigh crackled slightly over the phone. "House, Cuddy asked me if I'd like to head the hematology department for two weeks. Can you find someone to replace me?"

"Why, of course, Rurigawa!" House said in an ear-splittingly high tone that was unfortunately vaguely reminiscent of Cuddy at her most ecstatic. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I'm starting on Monday," Rurigawa informed him, brusquely ignoring the voice. "I have to work all the way through."

"Wait." Wilson took the phone back. "That means you can't attend Chase and Cameron's engagement party."

"Oh, no," Rurigawa breathed, wearily sarcastic. "What am I ever going to do? My life is _over_!"

Wilson frowned. This was unlike Rurigawa, to be so openly derogatory about something everyone was generally happy about, especially a colleague's engagement. "Well, because the diagnostic department got time off, but I don't know about hematology…" Wilson explained uselessly.

"Shoot, I almost forgot! I have to tell Cuddy right now that no way in hell can I take this job, I have to attend Chase's engagement party!" Rurigawa's voice was still slathered in sarcasm, and (could it be?) anger.

Wilson looked at House, who looked disturbingly innocent. Hang on. Wait. Something wasn't quite right. Sarcasm. Engagement. Cameron. House. Kiss. Surgery. Awkwardness. Cameron. Chase. Rurigawa…a lot of things fell into place and Wilson almost gasped. "Oh, God. You. Chase."

"Yeah." House was fiddling with the edge of his t-shirt.

"Well, it doesn't really matter. I'll talk to Cuddy. See you tomorrow."

"I want you functioning tomorrow," House growled into the phone, having snatched it back.

"Yeah. I think I'm going home now, actually. Never mind nine o'clock. Sorry for waking you up."

"No problem," Wilson started to say, but Rurigawa had already hung up. "So," he said, turning to House. "Why didn't you tell me about those two?"

House sighed and sat at the piano. "Didn't believe it myself," he said, more openly than ever.

"Why not?" Wilson asked, sitting next to him at the bench.

"Chase?" House quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Cameron…those two seem to just belong together." Wilson wriggled a little. The bench was cold and hard, and too small for two people. "I guess." House stared at him for some time. "What?" Wilson asked concernedly.

"You have drool on your face," House pointed out, a smile touching his face. He braced himself against the piano and pushed himself up off the seat.

Wilson wiped at his mouth thoroughly before realizing he'd been duped. Again. Although, considering what he had done earlier, it wasn't such a bad trade-off.

GHXJW

The street was silent, excepting the occasional whoosh of a car going by, the headlights flashing lemon-sherbet white in his eyes for a moment before it passed on by, leaving him to blink in the darkness. The streetlights glowed like pulsing orbs of fluorescence, creating perfectly circular pools of wan brightness every few steps. They highlighted the cold pavement and its battle scars in the weak light. If he looked up, he could make out the outline of flickering stars and airplanes. It was far too late for him to be walking home alone. But somehow the cold, nipping air and harsh gusts of frigidness were comforting. The ache behind his eyes was welcomed, along with the chills that thrilled along the stripe of bare skin between his glove and his sleeve especially, and seeped in like ice water to cover every inch of him in cold.

He really was a masochist, wasn't he?

Not just about the cold. It sounded clichéd and stupid, but he didn't care about that, or anything else, really. Mostly, he was just busy mentally kicking himself over Chase. Which was pretty stupid, considering he hadn't put up any sort of fight to keep him. It was like when you brushed off a clerk in a store, saying no, you were fine, you really didn't need any help, and them asking them to find something for you literally three seconds later. After making a note to himself to never do that, Rurigawa turned his mind back to the immediate problem. Chase most definitely wasn't perfect, and even in the week they'd been together Rurigawa had definitely had his moments where he was thoroughly fed up of Chase's pompousness and self-righteousness. But that as only sometimes, and a little bit.

Nowadays, people have mostly thrown out the window the naïve notion that you only have sex with your married spouse, or you only give yourself to someone you truly know and trust. Nowadays, the rules of sex work more along the lines of attraction. There are people who will throw themselves at any hot thing walking down the street, but neither Chase nor Rurigawa were that sort of person. They both rather viewed sex as something significant, and while attraction had played a strong role, mutual liking and fascination had taken center stage. Trust had been introduced during sex, and played something of a supporting role for liking, which was growing stronger and stronger with every passing day, maybe even overpowering attraction, although that only increased throughout the relationship…and then suddenly, it stopped. A train in full motion slammed into the wall that was Cameron, a bird taking flight torn down from the sky.

Well, maybe it wasn't quite so dramatic as that. Maybe it was the other way around – Rurigawa had diverted Chase from where he was supposed to be. But then, why couldn't he be permanently diverted? Was there some god that directed all this? Was this decreed by the stars? Because then it just wasn't fair! No one could be held accountable; nobody was accountable. If he wasn't accountable, why did this feel so damn strange? Like he'd lost something? He'd let Chase go; that was different than losing him. He'd let him go. Damn, damn, damn. And now, Cameron and Chase were getting engaged, there was the whole thing with the hematology department, the fact that it was four thirty a.m., the fact that tomorrow he had to deal with House later, the cold…and all of these were musings of his tired out brain, and made no sense at all…

Is the world is the stage, and all the men and women players? Then how come Rurigawa didn't know his lines?


	22. Confrontations

A/N: Some language in this one! And lots of Chase/Rurigawa, as I am still undecided as to what to do with them yet…House/Wilson has a happy ending, I'm afraid ;)

GHXJW

Confrontation wasn't Rurigawa's thing. Not at all. He hated fights and confrontations of any kind. Yelling, screaming, tears, blows to the face, insults…nah. None of that appealed in the least to him. He didn't like wrestling; whenever it came on TV he usually regarded it distastefully for a few seconds then switched the channel to something a little more intellectually stimulating. It was all pumped up testosterone to him. He hated doing things right in people's faces. Perhaps he was sneaky like that. It wasn't exactly a fear, just a sort of avoidance and slight of discomfort. No, confrontation was definitely not his thing.

So why the hell was he doing it now?

"Chase," he breathed, having run down to the ER. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Chase pulled down his mask at looked at him concernedly. "Is something wrong?" he asked quietly.

"No, not at all," Rurigawa began brightly, jamming his hands in his lab coat pockets and swaying from foot to foot. Oh, fuck. "Yes," he whispered, looking down at the front of Chase's scrubs. Chase's hand tentatively reached out to touch his upper arm. "No, nothings wrong…" Cameron walked by, flashing them both a little smile. "Yes."

Chase smiled at him. "Could you be _any_more confused?"

Rurigawa tilted his head up the few degrees needed to meet Chase's eyes. A wisp of blond hair peeked out from beneath the green cap, and the mask hung precariously off one ear. Blue eyes were looking straight down at him, those lips curved in a gentle smile…the slightly bloodied glove was still resting on Rurigawa's upper arm. That glove was attached to a hand which was attached to the radius which was connected to the ulna which was attached to the humerus which was attached to the scapula which was attached to the clavicle which was attached to the pale, yet slightly rosy skin underneath the green scrubs which Rurigawa knew was attached to some more skin that slid smoothly down the taut lines of Chase's body, down to the pelvis, which was attached to the…

"No," Rurigawa conceded, looking down at the clean hospital floor. "If there is anyone more confused on the planet, they're probably residing in the mental ward thinking they're a helicopter."

"Right." Chase smiled again, and Rurigawa could fucking feel it from his fixed position. He found he had grown tense, and that his left hand (which was connected to _his_ radius, which was connected to his ulna, which was connected to his humerus, which was connected to his shirt, his lab coat, and that _glove_…) was shaking a little. A funny little tremble that made him ask himself for the millionth time what the hell he was doing.

"I don't know," Rurigawa began, voice a little wobbly. "Whether I made the right choice."

Chase stiffened slightly as well, but he seemed to have forgotten about his hand on Rurigawa's humerus. "About…?" he said hesitantly.

You know bloody well damn what, Rurigawa snarled mentally, but instead a quieter "About letting you go" came out.

"Well, Ale – Rurigawa," Chase corrected himself, and it pained his ears. "I did make my own choice, in the end. Like you said."

"Maybe I should've done as you said." Rurigawa sighed, a little exasperatedly. "Asked and cried and begged you to stay."

"Maybe," Chase mused, hand still at its place on Rurigawa's humerus.

"Would you have stayed?" Rurigawa asked desperately, looking back up into Chase's eyes. Oops. Fuck. Whoopsies. The doctor just made a boo-boo. "I…I was just trying to do what's right, I guess." Rurigawa shrugged and looked at the floor again. The shininess of it really was rather fascinating. "I don't know if it was right or wrong. I don't even know if you're happy."

Chase shrugged as well. "I don't know."

"Wait, wait, wait. Screw all of this. Are you happy?" Rurigawa said abruptly, removing Chase's hand from his humerus. It was far too strange to have this conversation with Chase touching him, even through three layers of latex, whatever lab coats are made of, and cotton. (Although the latex wasn't somewhere they hadn't been, the blood on the latex was. Especially as it was someone else's blood).

"I…yeah," Chase said, looking surprised at having his hand back. It seemed that right there, comforting (or playing hell with) Rurigawa was where it belonged. "I mean, Cameron and I are doing fine, I…"

"Then what the hell am I even talking about?" Rurigawa half-laughed. "If you're happy, you made the right choice."

"Yeah, I –"

Chase didn't get to finish his sentence. "Congratulations! I really am totally out of it here. I was at the hospital until four a.m., so…" Rurigawa grinned, a little off-kilter.

Chase smiled fully. "What are you doing here?"

"No clue!" Rurigawa smiled back. "Well, House calls," he said, gesturing at his beeping pager. "Have to go. See you around."

"Yeah." Rurigawa walked briskly down the hallway, pausing only once to look back. Chase was still watching him, and their eyes met for half a second.

In that moment, Chase wasn't touching Rurigawa, not even through latex and cotton and lab-coat material. But somehow, there was something squeezing his heart, like a fist that was making it weep blood.

How fitting, he thought, for a hematologist.

GHXJW

"So either you're all wrong, or you're all wrong!" House beamed. "How exciting."

Parker rolled her eyes. "House, will you just –"

"No, no, no. What's the fun in that?" House mock-pouted, then started smiling again.

"No drama, no magic sparklies, no fun, right, Housini?" Rurigawa snapped, glaring at House. He was tapping his pen irritably against the table, making Parker glance in annoyance at him. His posture was simultaneously utterly rebellious and utterly defeated.

"He-ey," House tried to pout again. "What little sprinkle of reality burst your fluffy bubble?"

"What extra ten milligrams of speed got up your nose today?" Rurigawa retorted.

"All right," House roared, standing up and banging his cane on the floor. There was complete silence, as Parker and Trent looked terrorized and even Rurigawa a little disconcerted, even in his black mood. "Time out for you." He whipped his cane in Rurigawa's direction. "You get to talk to the sister and the wife. The wife of the man, not the wife of the sister. Just in case you were wondering."

Rurigawa smiled falsely and grabbed the file, almost running out the door. He was stopped by House's words: "No snatching – that might mean no gold star for today." He rolled his eyes perfunctorily at his reflection, and then stalked out.

GHXJW

Wilson couldn't help but smile as he walked by House's office. There was nothing like a happy House. It was even scarier, to some extent, than pissed, in-pain House. There was just so much energy, so much more life and vitality in every breath he took that Wilson was reminded of the old House he had originally become friends with. Oh, the sense of humor, sarcasm and superiority were the same. But there had been a willingness to live life to the fullest that was usually missing now, replaced by a stash of pills and shots. And a lot less golf than there used to be.

Then there were days like these, where House was bouncing off the walls, grinning insanely, amused at his team's deficiencies rather than annoyed. Although Wilson wouldn't take all the credit, he would accept some part in this newfound happiness. Maybe it might not last long, or might not always be there, for the moment, it was enough.

GHXJW

"So, Kara," Wilson said cheerily, coming into the room with more of a bang than usual. "How are you?"

"Fine," she said, with a smile. "My daddy's coming to see me today."

"Oh, really?" Wilson faltered. Damn. Betty hadn't told him about that. "When?"

"His flight arrives at three," Kara informed him. "So he'll be here by four-thirty, no later than five-thirty."

"You certainly know his schedule well," Wilson commented. Damn sight better than I know it. Oh, he wasn't nervous. He was just going to have to talk to a probably very scared and thus belligerent father who would demand to know why they hadn't caught the MBP earlier, and Wilson would have to try explain that there was no diagnostic test for MBP, they didn't usually test anybody for MBP, and that many doctors didn't even recognize MBP as a condition. They'd probably chat about Kara's cancer progression, and what all these wounds might do to her system. They'd also talk about getting a plastic surgeon to do all the scars. Wilson would reassure at least sixteen times that yes, Kara would live a normal life. No, she would not have impaired brain function, and would be able to eat and pee by herself.

God, he wanted to be House, just for this. Just to be able not to care about this for twenty minutes of his life.

Hey, there was an idea.

GHXJW

"And what would I get from this?" House asked disinterestedly, still bouncing the tennis ball repetitively against the wall.

Wilson was leaning against the wall straight across from House, who was avoiding his eyes and determinedly throwing the ball right next to his crossed ankles in a show of total disregard. "Well…" Wilson began slowly, and let a smile curve over his lips. "Right now it's one fifty-five p.m., Friday. Meaning we have tomorrow…all to ourselves…" House faltered slightly in his bounce-catch-throw motion, wrist poised in an angled curve. "To be more accurate I guess you could say all of tomorrow…and all of tonight…" He let it hang in the air, watching House carefully for a reaction.

Finally, House leaned forward and looked him in the eye, regarding him as though he might be ill. "Did you just bribe me with sex?" he asked, somewhat incredulously.

"Maybe."

"Not all good-looking people are whores, Wilson," House remarked good-naturedly, resuming throwing the ball.

"For a certain good-looking person, it might be lots of work to get sex for a while," Wilson threatened mildly. "Come on, House!" He resorted to a little whining and a winning smile.

House was silent. Then, "Did you just threaten to withhold sex?" he asked, in a similarly astonished tone.

"I …think so," Wilson admitted.

"You'd make a perfect wife." House continued to throw the ball against the wall. "Although I must say, you've probably had enough experience."

"No sex," Wilson repeated, almost pensively. He crossed his arms and stared absently out the window, knowing House was watching him.

"You really are selfish, you know," House told him. At this, Wilson's head whipped back around. "Did it ever occur to you that this might be about more than just us? That maybe a little girl's life might be at stake?"

Wilson smiled a little and joined House at the desk. "I knew you'd see it my way," he said.

"Well, you get to baby-sit my team." House stood up and strode out the door purposefully, with a half-smile on his face.

GHXJW

The door slid open with a bang. "Hello, I'm Dr. Gregory House. I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that I have more problems than your daughter."

The man was thin and wispy, with lank brown hair and glasses. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy. I have great legs, a great ass, and even better cleavage," House remarked, thinking how strange it was that despite his relationship with Wilson, he still said things like that. It was almost on autopilot.

The man sighed. "I heard you. What I meant was, who are you in relation to Kara? I know Dr. Wilson's her attending oncologist, but…?" He let the question hang.

"I'm the one who caught the Munchausen By Proxy," House informed him, puttering around and checking Kara's IVs. "I'm also the one who got stabbed by your wife."

"Ex-wife," Mr. White corrected. "Emily and I divorced four years ago."

"Huh." House made a noncommittal noise that could have suggested disinterest. "She'll be making a total recovery. The cancer's in remission, and these cuts will heal within three weeks, if not less."

"Oh. Good." It came out fragmented, only partially relieved. "Are you sure that…?"

"The cancer's coming back full strength, with tumors on both her lungs and her heart, the cuts punctured a few main, irreparable arteries, she won't recognize you when she wakes up, if she wakes up, she won't be able to use her legs at all, and she'll be blind out of her right eye," House rattled off sardonically. "And those cuts will scar," he added whimsically.

Mr. White blinked at him. "Oh. All right."

"Mr. White, you'd have to be seven kinds of idiot to believe anything I just said," House said lightly. "She'll make a full recovery. Her cancer was in full remission by the time your ex-wife came around with the wrong meds. The cuts are nothing. She is immuno-compromised, so we will be taking precautions, but otherwise? Kara will be normal. Every parent's dream."

"What kind of cancer did she have, exactly?" Mr. White asked, watching Kara as she shifted slightly in her sleep.

"Osteosarcoma," House said loudly. "Jackpot! Sarcomas are very rare, only occurring in about one or two percent of the cancer population."

"But it's gone now?" Mr. White clarified.

House sighed and rolled his eyes, the put on his best patient voice: "Dr. Wilson caught it before it metastasized. She's lucky."

"Where is Dr. Wilson, anyway?" Mr. White inquired, somewhat suspicious.

"No clue," said House. He's in his office, because he doesn't want to deal with you. "I know where he will be in a few hours, though." He'll be in bed, writhing and pleading for more. Hopefully it'll be my bed, but at this rate anything would do, really.

"Can I see him in a few hours?" Mr. White demanded. House was reminded of Mrs. White's forceful demeanor. Oh, and her unbalanced mental status as well, of course.

"No. Strangely enough, I think the reason he's not seeing you is because he's too busy, or something," House drawled. "Or maybe he's just not that into men with mental ex-wives and sick, bald daughters."

"He's into men?" Mr. White gaped.

"Well, where did _you_ think he was going to be in a few hours?" House raised an eyebrow and strode towards the door, leaving Mr. White aghast. "I wasn't lying when I said he was a busy man." The door banged shut behind him. Behind him, Mr. White was now making strange spluttering noises and looking repeatedly from Kara to House. House's face wore the touch of a genuine smile that comes from a job well done.

GHXJW

A/N: Sorry it's so damn SHORT…but I promise, I have some ideas for the next chapter, which I'll probably combine with this one later. I just liked the ending for this one. This fic is coming to a close…five more chapters at the most! Please tell me if you'd like a continuation of this, about the conference and such. (And probably the formal sponsor's dinner, haha). It'll be just a spin-off, fifteen chapters at the most, but just review/message me about it…thanks so much for all of your support thus far. It's really helped me keep writing. XD thanks so much, again!


	23. Together Again

A/N: Even if you read the chapter "Confrontations" before, please read it again as I added some vital material :3 Thanks so much so far for everyone's support. You're all fantastic.

Warning: next chapter is almost pure smut. Naughty naughty.

GHXJW

Nine o'clock. The city was blanketed in darkness, streetlights and buildings and cars throwing up rays of gray-yellow light. The lights were on in Wilson's office as he worked steadily through a mountain of paperwork.

Even his iPod could not tune out the unruly noise of House entering his office. Within three seconds of entering, House was parked on the couch, cane and backpack tossed to the floor. "So, Dr. Wilson," House began casually. "Got plans for tonight?" Wilson grinned and shook his head, blushing a little.

"House…I'm working."

"You bribed me."

"Very true. Strangely, doesn't change the fact that I'm still working."

House sighed and stretched out dramatically. "Are you telling me that I told my team the answer for nothing?"

"About what?" Wilson asked, filling out the request form for three more crash carts. It was insane how much those things cost, for how quickly they had to be replaced.

"Trent was convinced it was Kaposi's sarcoma, Parker was convinced it was melanoma, and Rurigawa was convinced it was a brain tumor." House sighed again. "Of course, it was parasites."

"Hmm," Wilson remarked. "Lesions, change in skin color..."

"His hypothesis was that if there was a brain tumor then it could be interfering with the signals the brain sends out to the epidermis," House clarified, and Wilson nodded. "Are you done working yet?" he whinged plaintively.

"No," Wilson said loudly. "I'm enunciating clearly, in case you didn't catch it the first time I said it." House looked at his watch, then back at Wilson. Then he looked at his watch again. Then back at Wilson. "God, House, what do you want?"

"What do you think I want?" House answered cryptically, but his smoldering gaze told him all he needed to know.

Screw the crash carts, thought Wilson. I always thought those things were ugly anyway.

GHXJW

And House most certainly was not ugly. His features, once merely familiar, were almost treasured, and the intrinsic sharp quality that made it part of House's face Wilson observed in fascination, not only with his eyes, but with his hands, and sometimes his mouth. Of course, the least sharp thing were his lips, and despite the stubble, Wilson found himself getting lost in the heady sensation yet again. It brought a thrill to his pulse and stomach he hadn't had for a long time.

It was like a teenager with his first bottle of beer. He opens it, and takes a swig. It's far too strong; it burns and writhes its alcoholic way down his throat, and leaves him feeling a little woozy, and it really does burn something awful. Oh, but the idea that he was going against the law! The rebelliousness! That amazing shot of adrenaline that brought Wilson down to his knees within five minutes of entering the apartment. The stumbled over each other's feet, hands far too occupied with running up and down and holding to help with any notion of balance. The tripped over to the couch, Wilson ending up bent over backwards as House just kept pushing further down. Wilson scrabbled for purchase, but that would mean disentangling his hands from House's body. He settled on moving from where his hands held on to House's face to bring him ever closer to the back of House's head, the base of his skull. House's arms went from where they were tugging on Wilson's tie (now on the floor in a skinny silk heap) to the hollows of Wilson's hips, and even through the cloth this simple, sliding stoke sent arousal shimmying up his spine delightfully, warm and electrifying. "Mm," he murmured unconsciously. "House…"

House broke away suddenly. "That," he growled, "is what drives me crazy. Your little _noises_ - "

Wilson laughed, and captured House's lips in another kiss. "Should I stop?" House stood up a little straighter, tightening what had been a vague touch against Wilson's hips into smooth, long motions that went up and down over the ridges of Wilson's ribs, back down to those comfortable little hollows. His fingers dipped under the dress shirt, leaving cold tingles where they traced soft lines. They toyed with the belt, finally undoing the silver buckle and tossing it to the ground. His lips moved from Wilson's mouth to his throat, biting, licking and sucking. "If you mark me, everyone will know," Wilson said, panting, moving to undo the fly on House's jeans.

"And everybody will lie. How convenient," House returned, equally breathless, and he then proceeded to bite down rather viciously on Wilson's pulse point.

"House!" Wilson gasped sharply, in more than a little pain. At some point House had deftly worked the buttons of the dress shirt undone, and now his mouth was traveling down from the neck to drag his teeth over Wilson's collarbone, gently pulling off the shirt. His mouth teased the already taut and cold nipples, causing Wilson's knees to clench inwards and his head to go back and his eyes to close. A noise of approval escaped his lips, rather high, but coming from his diaphragm. With a sly smile, House continued downward, intent in his work. House bit along the ribcage, making Wilson jerk with ticklishness, then followed the natural curve, down the pelvis until his tongue slathered the area his hands had been. He almost ripped the pants in his haste to get them onto the floor, along with the boxers and the shirt. He lowered his mouth, eyes never leaving Wilson's.

Wilson gave up trying not to make noises.

The neighbors got hardly any sleep that night.

GHXJW

A/N: so this is fantastically short. But I tried for hot. Did it work?


	24. Assumptions

A/N: Slight fluff. I hate Wilson's shirts.

Oh, and by the way, Amber Volakis can burn. What the hell is she doing with Wilson?! Do your thing, House, please, and save Wilson…we all know how much you luuuuuurve him… XD

Well, this fic is coming to a close…again; if a sequel is wanted just tell me in your review :)

GHXJW

"There. You look fine." Wilson smiled in contentment as he surveyed their reflections in the mirror. The sponsor's dinner didn't quite require a tuxedo, but Cuddy had begged Wilson to at least get House "decent." He felt he had done more than an adequate job: stuffing House into a suit was not easy. He stood slightly behind House, smiling softly to himself as House groused and glared away from the mirror.

"They're never going to take me seriously," he growled. "I look like I actually want to be there."

"Well, you're not going to act like you want to be there," Wilson countered. "So you can at least look the part."

"Everybody lies," House muttered, scowling at his reflection. Although his hair went uncombed as usual, and stubble still shadowed his jaw, he was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a dark blue tie with thin silver diagonals that personally he thought was in terrible taste. The blazer sat heavily on his tall frame, and the pants seemed to fall straight down from his belt, elongating his legs even further. "Wilson," he began to whinge. "Do I really need to –?"

"Oh, yes!" Wilson cut him off gleefully. "You still owe me for that moment at the nurses station the other day. No way are you getting off easy."

House sighed dramatically. "Yes, mommy." Wilson ignored the last jab and checked himself in the mirror for a last time. Nothing really out of the usual. His dark green-and-yellow striped tie was held firmly in place with his Oxford button-down collar, not a wrinkle in his black blazer, the crease in his pants razor sharp. "Does mommy have enough make up on?" Wilson merely ignored House's comment again, stepped back from the mirror and grabbed their coats from the coat rack, his own long brown one and House's gray wool. He tugged on his shoes, making sure to tie the laces firmly, and then stepped out into the night. The air was crisp and fresh, the heady smell of spring tickling the edges of the breeze. People walked by, laughing and chatting, illuminated by the bright city lights.

"House, come on," he called back into the apartment. House wordlessly stepped up behind him and locked the door. He caught the look on House's face. "You're not going to die, I promise." House's face only twisted into a deeper scowl, and he stalked forward. Wilson caught sight of House's shoes; he had chosen his customary sneakers over the traditional black shoes, but Wilson supposed he could allow him this small comfort. He could argue that it was for House's leg, or something.

"Got everything?" House asked as they neared Wilson's car. Wilson dipped his fingers into his coat pocket.

"Yeah – no." Wilson dug deeper into the pocket in panic; he couldn't feel the jagged edge of the key anywhere. He checked his other pocket as House contemplated the ground. Then House looked at him, and two and two came together. "You --!"

"Whoopsies. Guess we have to ride the bike," House commented innocently, but a slight smile betrayed him. Rolling his eyes again and sighing heavily, Wilson followed house to where the bike was parked. In the gleaming half-light, it was gleaming sienna, the black leather looking like splotches of soft ink. The mirrors reflected bright silver, and Wilson finally understood House's adoration for the bike, if only minutely.

"If I die on the way, they'll refund me, right?" Wilson asked flippantly, putting on the helmet House handed him.

A grin tugged at the corner of House's mouth. "Hold on," was his only command. Wilson didn't have to think twice. He wrapped his arms around House's waist, pressing his cheek into the thick wool of his jacket. He shifted a little closer. There was some vague memory of him not wanting to invade House's personal space, at some strange point in time, but now…? It was more of keeping the space personal that was a problem now, thought Wilson with a smirk. The motorcycle roared to life, jittering under their thighs. Then it sped forward, headlong into the New Jersey traffic.

GHXJW

Wilson and House arrived suitably windswept and exhilarated. They entered the hospital only to see Cuddy pacing in front of the nurses station. "Work's over," Wilson supplied helpfully.

"You're funny," Cuddy snapped. She looked stunning in a low cut, subtle magenta satin dress, multi-faceted crystals dangling from her earlobes and draped almost carelessly around her neck. Her curly hair was upswept into a messy bun, and her makeup was impeccable. Yet her face wore an expression of worry, and she had her arms wrapped about herself as she clacked across the floor.

"What's wrong?" he attempted again, as House rolled his eyes in the background.

"The musicians are all in Florida," Cuddy hissed, coming to a halt in front of them. "Somehow they thought today was next week."

"Can't live without the music," House agreed, sardonically, albeit. "No music, no life, dude."

Cuddy shot him a glare that clearly stated "Shut up, _now_", and resumed pacing.

Wilson blew out a sigh of relief. "Oh. Well. We're fine."

Cuddy rounded on him again. "You want me to keep a piano up there and just say it's for decoration?"

"Why not?" House mused.

"House, _you_ play the piano," Wilson said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "It'll be fine."

Cuddy looked at him as House limped away, visibly delighted that he wouldn't have to pretend to make nice and just do something he loved. "The things you do for him."

"I didn't do anything," Wilson replied.

"You cost this hospital five thousand dollars," Cuddy informed him, straightening up. In her heels, she rose to nearly his height. "But it's sweet of you."

"Didn't do anything," Wilson insisted, but he was smiling.

GHXJW

House sat at the piano, hands gliding over the keys in light arpeggios. Wilson sat down carefully after pulling a chair out for Cuddy, not taking his eyes off of House. The man sat there in intense concentration, warming up before the place filled up. There were still at least ten empty tables. He tentatively played few syncopated chords, fiddled with something dire that sounded like it was out of a Terence Fisher film, and then settled for a nice, sugary Chopin. Wilson watched him all the while.

It seemed that when House played, everything disappeared but the notes and House's fingers flitting over the pristine keys. The harmonies ebbed and flowed with the chords, light trills and lingering darker notes, weaving a rich tapestry of sound. Patients, cancer, the infarction, sarcasm, age, pain…it all seemed to fall away when House placed his hands on the keys and his foot on the pedal. It fell away like the fragile cherry blossoms under rain, but without the tragedy. Wilson tore his eyes away from the scene to find Cuddy staring at him. "What?"

"Can't get enough of him?" Cuddy asked slyly.

"I --" Wilson looked at her again. Her lips were stained a deep berry, and quirked up in a mischievous smile. Her long lashes framed her bright blue eyes, the edges crinkled with the smile. They sparkled with hidden amusement. A stray curl fell down the side of her face, a black spring against he perfect skin. She really was pretty, almost ridiculously so. "I mean…" he tried to continue feebly, totally at a loss to what to say. She was getting so close to the truth, and he had no idea if House wanted this a secret or not. They had certainly never discussed it. "Um," he finished articulately.

She took a sip from her water. "You and House did always seem…close."

"You're jumping to conclusions." Wilson tried for denial, gentle admonishment.

She arched an eyebrow. "Am I?"

"Yes," Wilson assured her. "Just because I'm watching him play doesn't mean I'm sleeping with him." She took another sip, watching him from over the rim of her glass. He fiddled with the edge of the napkin. "So, the menu –"

"You _are_!" she interjected gleefully, setting her glass down decisively. The water sloshed around dangerously. "You _are_ sleeping with him."

"Um," he retorted.

"Well," she said conclusively, and then stood up. "I have to go do my job. Watch my things for me?"

He nodded wordlessly, staring at the magenta satin clutch she had left on her chair. It offset nicely the forest green velvet of the chair. Wilson wondered briefly if Cuddy had actually picked her dress to match the chairs, and decided it highly likely. He spotted Rurigawa across the room and waved.

"Hi, Wilson," Cameron said from behind him.

"Hi," he answered, squinting at the image of Chase and her, holding hands. She was wearing a light orange, knee-length chiffon dress that Wilson though didn't do the most for her. Strange. Cameron usually wore things that suited her nicely. Chase smiled, and Wilson smiled back in greeting. He hoped it didn't seem cold; but the only thing that was playing through his mind was the loop of Rurigawa's bitter voice on the phone. "Where are you sitting?"

"No idea," Cameron informed him breezily. "We'll just look around. Talk to you later, all right?"

"All right." He smiled again, perfunctorily, and then glanced back at House. He was now playing some Tchaikovsky piece, from Swan Lake or something.

Someone plopped on his other side. "So it's true."

He whipped his head around. "Stacy!"

She smiled warmly. "Lisa told me. I never would have thought."

"Really?" Wilson remarked in an attempt at casual. "Most people are convinced that's what's happening. Not that it's true, of course."

"You always sucked at lying," Stacy said. "Although, actually…" She scrutinized him. "It does fit."

"Why, do I just set off your 'gaydar'?" Wilson asked.

"Not exactly…but House does."

He almost choked on his own spit. "_House_?"

"Yeah…" She glanced up at where House was playing.

"Oh, come on. He's constantly talking about Cuddy's…body," Wilson tried to justify.

"Overcompensation," Stacy snapped back. "Look, everything fits, all right? The only relationship he's ever been able to sustain is with you, but he keeps flirting with women, trying to hire pretty doctors -- denial. He plays the piano brilliantly – self-explanatory." She laughed. "I was kidding about the last one."

Wilson smiled. He'd heard the exact same explanation for himself, just a few months ago. "Right," he said slowly. House had turned out to be right. Was Stacy right as well? "Well, I'm not going to even try mess with you, Stacy. You and House…so alike. And I can never beat House in an argument."

"Because you always give in, because you love him," Stacy reasoned gently.

"He let's me stay at his apartment. I sort of owe him. Plus he never eats right." Wilson tried to give reasons. He tried, but Stacy's discerning smile told him he'd failed.

"You worry about him," she said.

"Yes, I do. Strangely, it's what normal friends do for each other," Wilson said sardonically.

"Strange how he doesn't do it for you," Stacy said gently.

"He does," Wilson told her, a little sharply.

That wily, female smile again. "And you know this how?"

"He lets me stay at his apartment. He tries to distract me from my problems." Wilson sighed. "It's just not as obvious."

"Subtle love?" Stacy said, in the same tone one would use to announce checkmate.

Wilson said loudly, "The musicians are in Florida, so he has to play the piano."

"Clever deflection," Stacy said sarcastically. "I almost missed it."

"Is Mark here?" Wilson asked concernedly. "It could turn ugly."

"No, he stayed home. I'm just here because I used to work for Princeton-Plainsboro…ad I'm friends with Lisa," Stacy finished with a grin. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"See you later," Wilson echoed, and she left in a swish of steel gray skirts. He closed his eyes for a moment. He needed to talk to House about this, but not in an obvious way. And dragging the pianist offstage for five minutes was pretty obvious, wasn't it? Well, he'd just play the denial card for now. Everything would just fall into place later.


	25. Pills, Shots, Nothing

They stumbled through the door, slipping off their shoes. Wilson went to the kitchen for a glass of water. When he walked into the bedroom, House was pulling off his tie. "It won't come off," he growled, pulling ferociously.

Wilson grinned hugely, overcome by this wave of – something. It was giddy and made him want to laugh and hold House and just stay that way forever, ensconced in the warmth and comfort and feeling of contentment. He settled for taking two steps towards House and wrapping his arms around his waist, burying his face in House's shoulder. That same scent, that same elegant, sharp scent filtering through his nose and hitting his brain like a shot of heady whisky. He pulled House closer, enjoying the feeling of something so _solid_ in his arms, not just a dream or a vague wish, not a whispered half-promise, but House. Every good and bad part, every tear, every scream, every memory was here in his arms. Suddenly overwhelmed, Wilson let go slightly.

_Don't want to lose you._

He pulled closer.

"So you're not going to help me with this tie? You're just going to cling to my waist and watch me suffocate?" House snapped.

"I thought you were a genius," Wilson murmured into House's neck. The stubble scraped and the warm skin gave. "Work it out yourself."

"I thought you cared about people," House retorted. "Undo my tie."

"Here." Wilson reached over House's shoulder and easily undid the tie, slipping it off and letting it pool to the floor in a silver-diagonaled silk coil. He dragged his hands back, taking off the jacket and flinging it to the floor along with the tie and all his worries. Next went the shirt, tugged free from the belted pants and slowly unbuttoned. It joined the jacket and tie.

"Why, thank you, Wilson. I'd forgotten how to take my clothes off. What would I do without you?" House quipped, then turned around and ripped Wilson's jacket and tie off dexterously. That pile of clothing was growing steadily. House was halfway down Wilson's shirt when a thought occurred to Wilson.

"You took my tie off pretty easily," he remarked evenly, peering at House through the haze of happiness.

"Your skills of observation never fail to amaze me," House said dryly, unbuttoning more slowly.

"Which means…you…hey…you…" Wilson couldn't quite get the words out through the wide smile. This was so _utterly_ House and it was making his toes tingle with the titillating notion that House was his.

"You're not complaining, are you?" House countered, still not meeting Wilson's eyes. Wilson watched him patiently, a hand on House's.

"No, I'm not complaining," Wilson said finally.

"Good. Because if you were, I might have to –" House cut himself off with a slightly startled expression and sat up, withdrawing his hands from their position. He stood up, and turned to gaze out the window and the silent street.

"You might what?" Wilson asked, without thinking.

"Nothing." House's voice was harsh.

Wilson said nothing, but watched the dark silhouette against the wall. The shadow didn't flicker. House drew in a deep breath, moving a hand automatically to his thigh. "Does it hurt? Do you need something?" Wilson jumped in.

"You know, you might try asking me for answers to your questions instead of drugging me every time you get curious," House said coldly, fingers clutching around his leg.

Wilson flinched internally. "Right." They stayed like that; the seconds dipped in a thick sauce of awkwardness, until the dish was far too cold to taste. It froze over in a minute or so. "House, I –"

"Wilson, you understand that if you're…with me…there are things you are never going to hear, no matter how much you drug me," House said, still facing the wall. His voice didn't hold anything that Wilson could've interpreted as weakness, no; it was a plain hard statement of fact.

"House." Wilson rolled his eyes, crossed his arms and sat back. "I know. I wasn't expecting anything." He winced. "Oh, God. That didn't come out right at all. What I meant was…" House's arm shifted a little, sending the shadow aflutter for a second. "That you don't have to…I don't…it's all right." He got off the bed and shuffled over to where House was standing and tentatively reached out a hand, touching it lightly to House's, over his thigh. House stiffened momentarily, then with a tremble, let Wilson stay there. "It's all right."

House looked at him, and something in those blue eyes threw him a curveball and tipped him off-balance. "It's just I…" Wilson sighed. "I understand. I know. Don't worry."

House looked down at where their hands were touching, just a knuckle brushing against another. Then he leaned forward, Wilson picked up his cue and their lips brushed for a second. "Is it enough?" he asked softly.

"House, whatever other people might call…this, it's fine." Wilson had a strange urge to giggle. "People say I'm masochistic, self-destructive –"

"An idiot," House pointed out helpfully.

"Thank you," Wilson said. "It's more than fine. I think it's…perfect."

"How poetic," House said, without venom.

"Come, come," Wilson said, jokingly. "Where does thy heart lie?"

House looked back up at him. In the slanting light, they were illuminated to a brilliant, alive sapphire. "That's one of the things you're never going to hear," he said quietly.

"Unfortunately for you, you're going to hear it from me. All the time," Wilson told him. "My heart doth lie in thy hands, Sir Gregory House."

The corner of House's mouth twitched in amusement. "And what wouldst thou have me do with it?" he inquired, playing along.

"What thou wilt," Wilson answered in complete sincerity.

"Indeed," House said. "And what wouldst thou have me do with other parts of thy anatomy?"

"Attend to them soon, preferably," Wilson said casually.

House's smile spread. "Would this make you a damsel in distress?"

"Much distress," Wilson agreed. "The bed's over there."

"Have a problem with the floor?" House taunted, grinning wickedly.

"No, but your leg might," Wilson said, putting a hand to the infarction.

House rolled his eyes. "Way to kill the mood, Wilson."

"My job," Wilson replied absentmindedly. House stared at him for a while, saying nothing. There was a complete silence. Then he leaned in and kissed Wilson thoroughly, and Wilson's world fell apart and came together all at once, yet again. "You're never going to say it, House," Wilson said, in between soft, gasping kisses.

"What?"

"You know."

House's eyes flashed above him for an electric moment before he closed them and sighed, as though bracing himself for something horrible. "I…I…" He rested his forehead against Wilson's. "Love you," he mumbled, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush.

Wilson laughed triumphantly. "Ha! I meant about the bed versus the floor. But…this works too." House's mouth was open in surprise, and Wilson took the opportunity to kiss him, deeply and more intensely than he thought possible. Arousal thrilled from the top of his head to the very tips of his toes, making him shudder with want and need and Wilson _still _didn't know where House had learned to kiss like that, nipping and licking and sucking and tongue and the thought of House's first kiss made him a little jealous, but _God_, at least House was kissing him now and _oh_ –

"Damsel in more than a little distress," Wilson gulped. A hand slid promisingly down from its position on his neck to his hip.

"If we have sex for an hour," House began. "You'll burn two hundred sixteen calories."

Wilson groaned. "Oh, well, what better reason could you have presented with?"

"I could've lied and said you would burn five hundred calories."

"Even better."

"I knew you'd agree to it someday," House said, sarcastically winsome.

Wilson exhaled in frustration. "What, this whole thing, or just having sex with you?"

"Both. I imagined how you'd look saying 'fuck me' in my bed from that first day, nine years, eleven months, two weeks, a day, fourteen hours, twelve minutes and sex seconds ago," House rattled off sardonically, sliding his other hand down Wilson's back.

"All right with you if I just say that, but we're not in bed?" Wilson grumbled pleadingly, trying to reengage House fully.

"You're touching dangerous ground here, Jimmy," House said in a low voice.

Wilson laughed, "Thought you were always dangerous." But as House sucked his sanity out from his mouth, hands in places that were hardly work-appropriate, Wilson had never felt safer. Time stopped, the world paused and on impulse, Wilson delayed himself a little further, took House's head in his hands and whispered a dashed "I love you" against his lips.

All those problems: the pills, the shots, they were all left behind to fester in their own inanity. In the end, they really didn't matter.

_-fin-_

A/N: Well, it's over...the last twenty lines or so took me half an hour to write...I'll probably redo them. :) Thanks so much to all the people who have supported me throughout the writing of this fic. I really apologize for the delay in updates, but I wanted to get everyone in character...TELL ME IF YOU WANT A SEQUEL. :D Thanks again!!


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